


Caught

by tatou



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: AU, Brainwashing, Dark!Bunny, F/M, Gore, M/M, Rape, Some A/B/O Dynamics, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships, currently on hiatus, fake history/fake science etc, some somnophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:29:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 124,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He will forever recall with trembling breaths the way he ultimately gave himself over to fate and begged for more; this is where they begin now, truly, doe and buck- for what animal can resist the beauty of instinct, what creature can withstand the torment of repression?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. into the hands of decay

**Author's Note:**

> for v.
> 
> x.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Such a common, foolish story. Whispered, always, with wrinkled brows: large, blurred figure. moving silently within the dark. 
> 
> swear to you, it followed me.

 

Jack’s skin feels far too hot for where he is standing.

 

He looks down at his feet, numbly assessing the misshapen shadows crisscrossing the snow.

 

He should be shivering, his teeth chattering (and they do, a little, but only in brief, quiet clicks every now and then as if it is something his brain only remembers in flashes that he is supposed to be doing), but there is little in his mannerisms to indicate the night’s chill affects him. His breath puffs in the air, curling like whispered ghosts from his mouth; his fingers ache slightly, his toes too, but he is accustomed to this particular chill. Barefoot in the gloom and the winter’s cold, he stands listening to the breathy ripple of concealed life inhabiting the woodlands he has trespassed into, head cocked to a gentle angle. Reddened from the snow but unharmed, his toes twitch, calves tensing and relaxing as muscle curls, compact, and then springs. His first step forward in a long, long minute seems to crash noisily in his own ears and he flinches but continues forward, forcing himself to lift his gaze from his hesitant feet.

 

Later, once he has arrived home and washed his feet, tugged on his woolen socks and a blanket for good measure, he will curl up in bed and thank his stars that he still has any feeling in them at all.

 

Certainly it was foolish to run out without footwear. He ought to have known that before, anticipated the risk of losing his way. Admonishing his own recklessness now will do nothing to solve the situation at hand, he reminds himself, but he cannot help the irritation that slithers between his fingers, which lie hidden, tucked safely into the warm pits of his arms. If his mother knew she would slap him, scream and cry with the usual hysterics. So many times she has forbidden Jack from going about barefoot, from wandering, from straying toward the tree lines- and yet here he is defying her once again.

 

His cheeks burn guiltily. This time his reason is valid. The others, all those countless times he has snuck free of her command and gone headlong into what the day would have of him…for those he cannot atone.

 

Today’s greatest sin is one he cannot help. He had been out late tonight, aware of the fading sunlight but too far gone in the merriment to care. A handful of friends and a frozen lake meant skating until his thighs burned and ached, until his cheeks were chafed and nearly frosted over themselves; they’d left for home early enough, leaving the previously glossy ice chiseled and scuffed. He’d had no intention of returning in the dark, much less stranding himself as he has now. His mother may not believe it, but that is the truth.

 

Now a true shiver possesses him, rippling mirror-like across his thin frame and he clasps himself a mite more tightly, uneasy as he scans his surroundings another time. There is no denying it: he is afraid.

 

Of bears, cougars, wicked men? Certainly.

 

But those are not the only beasts that walk these woods.  

Withered branches croak at him in the wind. Jack purses his lips.

 

Why is he thinking of this now?

 

Such a common, foolish story. Whispered, always, with wrinkled brows: _large, blurred figure. moving silently within the dark._

 

_swear to you, it followed me._

 

Everyone he knows has some such claim, all of them identical: too fast for a proper look, a gust of wind and nothing there but huge prints scuffed in the dirt. Jack has tried not to give too much credit to such tall tales, but inwardly something of him cowers in discomfort, knowing he, too, has experienced similar.

 

These encounters…nearly every one of them in the dark.

 

Even with as adventurous (foolhardy, his mother would call it) as Jack is, even he isn’t fool enough to disobey that common sense law that seems to need no words or doctrine to be enforced within the village.

 

To be outdoors after nightfall carries an unspeakable risk.

 

They have all seen the drag-marks of blood slashed across forest paths, within the bounds of their own gardens and grounds. The ignorant never live.

 

Looking up past the trees overhead, Jack swallows hard at the sight of the dark sky. Stars glitter what seems like an eternity away, winking glibly at him in his uncertainty.

 

Normally at this time of night he would be safely, comfortably in bed, or perhaps keeping his sister company as she dressed her dolls. Today ( _tonight_ , he thinks fretfully), he has been caught by surprise.

 

Not surprise- he has been caught by foolishness. His own, of course; for all the fun he had earlier ice skating with his friends, one of the falls he took must have knocked the sense straight from his head. Upon returning home from the lake, he had apparently dropped one of his skates in the snow and failed to notice until after he had arrived home. It had been a split-second decision going after it, with the sun already setting, but he had not wanted to risk upsetting his mother with his carelessness.

 

 (  _the lines of sadness on her face, he could scarcely count them all. what cruelty adding another would be_ )

 

His shoulders hunch from the guilt, lips pressing to a tighter line.

 

There is a mighty difference in a forest at night and a forest at day.

 

It is odd that he should have gotten so lost when he has known these backwoods all his life. He should have easily recognized his own frequently-taken paths, the trees into which he had climbed and dangled and carved his initials, like all the other ambitious youth, into bark still fresh. But that had all been in the presence of daylight, where every tree seemed friendly and the flowers that shifted in the breezes waved hello at him, dropped a petal as permission to be picked. Where everything was beauty and green in the early hours, night twisted the forest into a vice. It strangled the beauty Jack knew into a bruised shock of black; nothing was the same. The flowers shirked moonlight, and when they gazed up at Jack their petals looked wrong, their grainy little carpels looking like angry, obscure faces. Odd shadowy shapes danced across ragged trees' bark, at one glance giving them the appearance of bearing daemonic faces.

 

The usual path to the lake was obscured from him the moment darkness fell, rendering Jack utterly directionless within minutes.

 

He picks his way quietly through the snow, tiptoeing now. To his right slumbers what he hopes is a familiar looking pine, a snapped branch hanging at its side in a sad spray of splintered wood and yellowed foliage. The sky above him is lost to thick canopies of leaf and branch, and what little moonlight shines through makes for pale slivers of odd shapes on his white, white skin.

 

The effect of that light is so startling, catching at the corners of his sight and alarming him so frequently that he finds it necessary to remind himself he is not normally this pale. The illusion is caused by the moon’s milky light, but he cannot help thinking how _dead_ he looks in the low light, every vein apparent, his flesh nearly translucent.

 

Though his heart pounds and his skin runs with gooseflesh at any sound that is not his own, Jack steels himself, determined to stay calm and keep looking. The faster he finds that skate the faster he will be returned home, safe and protected underneath the sheets on his bed.

 

But snatches of old dreams canter willfully round his scattered thoughts and he shivers at the memories. Since he’d first heard the stories, he had occasionally dreamt of the creature stalking him throughout the wooded area enclosing Burgess- but then again, what child in the village hasn’t pictured the same? The stories are old, possibly older than the village itself. They had been (and still are) passed on like heirlooms, ornate tales of danger and blood to provide caution for those who listen.

 

He feels a pang of fear in his heart upon drawing free of his thoughts and realizing that this cluster of thick growth and pine trees is not familiar at all. He had hoped following the thinning sprawl of them would lead to the frozen lake, but when has he ever been so lucky as that? There is still no beaten path at his feet, no man-made flagpole marker to point him in the right direction. If it were lighter outside he would follow his own tracks back home, but this deep into the forest there is nothing but eerie, muted sound and darkness, and Jack knows how to navigate neither.

 

He presses onwards, hoping madly that the lore is nothing but an old wives’ tale to keep children from wandering off alone at night. He has never completely doubted, but he has never truly _believed_ , either. If something as cruel as this creature exists, then surely there exist greater things? Good, benevolent things to balance out the terrible, and to keep him safe?

 

( _god hear me,_ he thinks to himself, the words foreign to himself,  _let me return safe and breathing. let him be only a myth, and nothing more_  )

 

There is no answer, nor is he expecting one, but for a single moment it enables Jack to close his eyes and allow himself to be soothed by the comfort the thought of safety brings.

 

 ( _Jack has been out entertaining the children again, amusing them with stories and harmless stupid tricks that take his mind off the absence of his age-matched friends. They have wandered out by the market for a visit to Philipe's today: the younger ones are giddy with the anticipation of receiving another one of his anecdotes, another retelling of the stories they have heard from their parents. But they like it best from Philipe; he does not hide the gory details, nor does he pat the tops of their heads and remind them this is why they must hold fast to the faith and be good (but Jack thinks that is mostly because his hands are often covered in grease, or blood)._

_"He’ll steal you away." The butcher says, leaning over the bench to look at the group of them, eyes cautionary and stern. The look is part of his act for the children: he smiles and it is playfully wicked, perhaps meant to be an imitation of the Pooka's visage, and the children clap eagerly, clamoring for him to continue. His face is haggard with the day's work of preparing and vending meat, hands and large chopping knife smeared with pig's blood, none of which makes him look the least bit menacing. They trust him: he is one of the few adults in the village who tells things like they are. He loves the children; he is not afraid to enlighten them._

_He closes his eyes and wipes a greasy hand across his coarse apron. "Be not out after dark, else the Pooka lay claim to your life." He parrots, reminding the children of the oft-repeated legend concerning a terrifyingly humanoid rabbit and the dangers of his presence._

_Jack is as enthralled as the rest, listening raptly, but custom sets a slight frown twisting his mouth in concern. "Philipe, you’ll frighten them."_

_If his father were here he would scold Jack for speaking in such a manner to an elder (he does not know much of the man, but he remembers more often than not being reprimanded for his behavior). But Philipe is here and wise and uncaring of the societal ways, making him a favorite of the local children and subtly scorned amongst the adults, and his father is dead._

_"It’s not just a story meant to frighten them, Jackson." Philipe opens his eyes and the look in them is suddenly so distant it startles Jack. The playfulness is gone from his demeanor, replaced with the same wariness Jack has seen thrive on his mother's face. "It’s the truth, and you’d be better off knowing it as such. Don’t coddle them because they’re afraid."_

_"I won’t." Jack promises, more than a little confused. There is a ring of truth to Philipe’s words that cannot be ignored and so he nods instead, giving the butcher a small smile before turning back to face the young ones and offer a game of tag._

_It is more to distract him than the children. )_

 

A sturdy _snap_ jolts him back to the present and Jack’s eyes fly open. His heart jumps to his throat, pounding hard.  He prays and hopes briefly that someone has spotted him and come to his aid.

 

“Hello?” He calls out: a stupid thing to do, but he is growing desperate.

 

His voice resonates in the darkness, obvious and clear as a whistle. There is no response, but the sudden sharp prickle of hairs on the back of his neck tells Jack he is being watched. Something tugs curiously in his belly; he lifts his chin to the branches overhead, body still as stone.

 

He knows this feeling far, far too well.

 

Carefully, Jack edges away from where he has left the echoes of his voice. He steps as quietly as he can, a nervous sweat building slowly on the back of his neck at the busy work of remaining soundless. He does not like what is happening. He does not like this sense of wrong growing in his throat. No sound follows him; his fingers clench into his palms, heels pressing hard into the cold earth beneath him and pushing cleanly off for greater distance. 

 

His temple begins to burn and his eyes water in dulled fear. Is this what a rabbit feels like when it has been cornered, he wonders? Is this what a doe, a cub, a calf senses before the agonizing strike to its skull, heart, lungs? 

 

Memories and tidbits of those stories come bubbling back up to his mind: stories of a ravenous hunger, eyes that glow, a death-bringer like none other.

 

No, he cannot take it.

 

In a burst of desperation Jack bolts back the way he came. He is not sure where this paranoia comes from but it snakes like a chill through the air that strikes true to his nerves. Snatches of sounds build up in his ears, but they are not from his surroundings, nor his actions. Dusty with age and cracked with anxiety, they are things he has heard in the nights where he is buried safely in his own bed, where haunts of his mind's own devising clutter and scratch at the walls of his skull.

 

It is difficult running when the snow is up to his ankles- several times he nearly trips or goes sliding, hissing through his teeth when he comes into contact with ice. He comes to a jolting stop when he nearly stumbles over a large clump of underbrush, winded, his breath lost to the cold air.

 

The trees seem wrong here.

 

There is something in the way they seem to cage in toward him, growing far too closely together to be anything other than one entity occupying a host of separate bodies. There is no way this was here before- it is striking enough to be memorable, if he has ever seen it before, but studying it too closely has Jack’s skin crawling, sending him away from the sight willingly.

 

Panting as his lungs burn in the brutal cold, Jack begins to make his way around the underbrush clumped at the wide trunk, freezing when it begins to rustle noisily. 

 

It must be some woodland animal, he reassures himself, a small one. It can’t be anything else.

 

He pushes past and nearly screams out in terror when a quick blur of movement darts just past his peripheral vision, leaving his heart feeling like it is going to burst out of his chest.

 

Nonononononono.

 

His calves are burning now from the exertion of escaping 

 

( _escaping_ _what_? )

 

and his throat is going uncomfortably dry from the way his mouth has fallen open, careless of his own frightened noises. He knows now he is being hunted, there is no use in remaining silent when his would-be assailant is right on his tail.

 

Something bursts from the ground before him with the sound of a great wave disrupting a calm water surface- Jack nearly goes sprawling over it, shrieking, but manages to twist away just in time, stumbling over his own feet and landing with a painful thud on his hip. The position grants him a closer look at the wriggling interruption- he gapes at the writhing mass of tree roots knotting across his path. He does not give them the chance to get nearer- he springs to his feet with a ragged gasp, darting away when more roots push out of the surface near his ankles. 

 

"Stop!" He shouts stupidly, realizing with a horrific bout of dread that the roots are tangling together on the path and blocking any more progress towards home, or wherever he thinks that is. There is again no answer, no sound but his own fast breathing, the terrible crunch and drag of heavy, gnarled roots over snow. Almost mesmerized by the odd way in which they jerk and twist, looping like snakes, so thickly knotted together that he could never pick his way across, Jack stands trembling in the snow on his brightly-reddened feet, backing away from their reach. 

 

If he were to run and leap over them, would they rise to grab at his ankles?

 

His heart drums faster in his chest; his lungs feel like they are contracting, refusing air, waiting for something, for a final moment in which he can scream, plead, cry. He is waiting, looking amongst the shadows, trapped between the trees. Waiting. 

 

If he were being followed by an animal- a wolf? a bear?- the attack would have no doubt been over by now, Jack thinks. As of this moment he would be dead or dying, painting the snow with the last and only evidence that he has ever lived. Why is there this awful waiting? What reason is there for this creature to draw out the terror and leave him whimpering? 

 

 _Is_ it an animal?

 

"....hello?" He asks the night again, feeling foolish.

 

There is a short laugh behind him, and his whole body jerks in astonishment, nerves set aflame in terror as he reluctantly turns. A laugh is human, he thinks. No other creature can make such a sound. He is being stalked by his own kind.

 

A tall, long-eared figure steps casually from the darkness and the last of any breath Jack had in his lungs is gone in a quick combination of a shriek of fright and an astonished gasp. Staggering backwards, Jack's blood goes cold as the figure follows after him, almost sauntering forward with long, easy steps, closer and closer until he is just before Jack, and Jack closes his eyes and flinches away from the hot breaths on his cheek, in his hair. It would be foolish to convince himself this is a nightmare- there is no realer thing than terror, no way to ignore the way his hands have gone icy and the very real, physical brush of fur against his chest and hands. It stares down at him and Jack feels an overwhelming, crushing sorrow at the realization that these are his last breathing moments, that his body will be found in the coming days and that he was unfortunate enough to die by the Pooka's paws. But no blow comes, and when Jack dares a look upwards he finds himself looking at a sharp-toothed smile.

 

It is much too dark to catch a proper look, especially at this unnervingly close proximity, but the most Jack can see now is the teeth. They look sharp and deadly in the moonlight that glances off of them, but worse still is the faint green glow that comes from his eyes- eyes that look unmistakably human. 

 

They stare at each other, one half-blinded with fear and the other smiling wide with  satisfaction. Jack's chest heaves, still winded from his attempts at escape and suffering from a new inability to draw and retain breath. The creature's eyes hold a vast, worldly knowledge he couldn't begin to comprehend, alert and sharp and utterly focused on Jack. The stories all say the Pooka is not a creature of this earth, Jack remembers faintly. Could they be right? 

 

All his life, Jack had thought the stories to only be a means for the adults to stir fear in children to keep them from sneaking off into the woods to play at night. He had only listened out of subtle paranoia and a very common fear of the unknown, but had never given them too much thought. Now, here is the proof before him, and it stings to both know that such a creature is real and that all the sudden losses in the dead of night and wails of suddenly smaller families are all a result of him.

 

He wishes, strong and abruptly, that he had stayed home. 

 

“Hello.” The Pooka answers.

 

His voice is a low, unnervingly sensual purr, thickened with an odd accent Jack has never heard before. His ears twitch attentively in the air, listening to things Jack cannot hear. He steps back (Jack feels he could faint of dismay at the size of him, standing bipedal on big, clawed feet, powerful legs) and circles once around Jack. 

 

All he can see is a silhouette, lithe in form though he is much taller- <i>horrifyingly</i> larger than Jack would ever have guessed. The silent tread of his feet upon the ground tells of a masterful stealth and power. Jack knows better than to move.

 

He feels no awe or surprise at the fact the Pooka can speak: he has always been described as a more advanced species, very much animal but also very much humanoid, frighteningly so. What does surprise him is that he has been stupid enough to be caught in its domain when he has all his life been taught to do exactly the opposite. All of the forest belongs to the Pooka, he has been told. 

 

_In broad daylight he’ll often leave you be, but beware the night’s grasp, and the claws and death that join it._

 

“What are you doing out barefoot in the dead of night?” The Pooka asks, and Jack stammers.  “Not running away or anything silly, I hope?”

 

“N-no-“

 

He sounds stupid even to his own ears, but the shock of this creature being real is weighty on his heart and lungs, the shortness of breath so prevalent that Jack struggles to stay upright and even conscious. His knees, cold and knocking close together in fear, feel as though they’re about to give out. The warmth that radiates from the Pooka's figure tantalizes Jack's frozen limbs, teasing at him, at his memory. 

 

“Well, I’m glad for that.” The Pooka leans in close, and his eyes glow dimly in the dark, a subdued emerald fire. “You hear so many stories out here, about disappearances.”

 

“You’re-you’re him.” Jack manages, every moment expecting a final grin of fangs and a burst of pain, then nothing. "The Pooka."

 

The creature smiles, and his eyes are full of ill-hidden malice. He bows his head, dipping close to Jack's throat and lingering there, whispering out his introduction with a bite to his words that easily hints at a longing to sink his teeth into the cold flesh. "E. Aster Bunnymund, at your service."

 

"Don't." Jack whimpers, drawing back on wobbling legs as the Pooka straightens up and circles around him once again. He scrutinizes Jack head to toe, stopping just behind him. "I'm sorry- I didn't mean to trespass- I lost something, I just came to get it back." 

 

He cuts off with a whimper when he is grabbed by the shoulders, gently.  Something about those strong, hefty paws feels _raw_ , wrong, but Jack does not dare move away. He wants desperately to twist around and away from the Pooka but now his back is pressed flush against Bunnymund's chest, and all sense flies straight from his mind, leaving him blank as a newborn. To have certain death standing so close, holding and speaking to him so intimately is at once terrifying, breathtaking.

 

He shivers mightily as a nose brushes his cheek, the fine short fur of the creature's cheek rubbing against the shell of his ear. "Shh." Comes the voice again. "What makes you think you’re trespassing, little one?" 

 

Jack's pulse spikes; he winces at the push of strong fingers into his shoulders, brow dipping in confusion. "What?" 

 

Bunnymund laughs, and the sound is pleasing, almost unbelievably human. "Don't fret. Now, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say you're lost. Correct?" 

 

Unable to find his voice, Jack nods, eyes watering. He feels so lightheaded suddenly; his vision swims, something in his ribs drawing too-tight, squeezing desperate thrusts out of his sorry heart. He blindly puts out a hand to steady himself, the sound of his blood rushing in his ears as his fingers squeeze into hot fur, his eyelids fluttering.

 

The grip on his shoulders seems to tighten, almost as though the news and the contact have excited the Pooka. A huff of breath gusts across Jack’s throat where the collar of his shirt has crumpled, pushed aside by an errant finger. “And I reckon you want to find your way back to mummy and daddy?”

 

Jack clenches his jaw and nods again.

 

 _Stay calm_.

 

“What if I told you I could take you home?”

 

Jack goes stiff in the Pooka's hold, dizzy with disbelief. None of the stories he has ever heard tell only of disappearances, odd bargains struck and messes of blood found on earthen ground. There have only ever been bodies and blood, never survivors. Never has he heard tell of aid coming from the Pooka's own paws, no benevolence of any kind. The offer is new, tempting- but again, the lore tells the Pooka is a twisted, selfish creature. He is sure there is a loophole somewhere in the offer, waiting to clasp him tight around the neck and choke him free of breath.

 

"Truly?" He asks, turning his head slightly to get a better look- a mistake, because then the creature's nose is closer yet to his skin and as he speaks, his tongue wisps out to taste Jack's neck.

 

Jack resists the urge to jerk away at the touches, biting back a shuddery whine when a cold, slender claw traces up his cheek. "Is it wise to doubt me, do you think?"

 

“You could be lying.” Jack whispers, his eyes squeezing shut as the claw moves delicately along and caresses his lips. There are so many other stories he has heard, ones of greed for flesh and visceral debauchery

 

_( he knows; familiar, just like in his most troublesome nights )._

 

He is not surprised to detect the lust in that strangely accented voice. It takes every ounce of willpower Jack has to keep from flinching away from that paw. One wrong move and it could go slicing towards his eye, no matter his disgust. 

 

“I could." Bunnymund allows. For a creature so allegedly old, he sounds lively in his talk, almost young. There is a heavy knowledge and experience that lies behind so strange an accent, and it only serves to befuddle and intimidate Jack further. "But think of it this way. There's no one alive on this earth you could possibly find who knows the forests better than I do. What other choice do you have, boy?" 

 

“It’s Jackson.” Jack blurts, and he wonders if he will regret the revelation of his name. But how can he be sure Bunnymund does not already know his name? With all the strange occurrences he has heard of that come associated with Bunnymund, he would not be surprised to hear of magical origins or abilities of any kind. Even then, the telling of his name feels like a necessary introduction, something he is meant to do. "Jackson Overland."

 

“ _Overland_ ,” Bunnymund repeats thoughtfully.

 

In all this darkness, Jack feels blind: the little moonlight that filters through the leaves above them seems to favor the Pooka, illuminating as little of his as possible to leave Jack guessing. His full appearance is a vague, dark mass to Jack's weak eyes. What few glances he has caught (green eyes, a flash of a pink nose and long feet) do little to still his rising fear. 

 

“So what do you say?” Bunnymund moves his paws down to Jack's wrists, easily circling their skinny lengths with his large palms. "All you have to do is give me something in return and I'll bring you straight home."

 

The hold on his wrists makes Jack feel trapped more than the roots did. So far there has been no threat of physical violence, for which he is astounded and grateful, but there is this new thing now, this offer he cannot refuse for lack of other options. If he were to say no, would he be swiftly killed, or left out in the night to freeze on his own? 

 

Jack bites his lip. Some intuitive part of him deep in his chest tells him softly that yes, he is going to regret this very, very much. But what else can he do? The darkness of the forest around them seems to press in at all sides, and the puffs of their breaths in the chilled air mingle and disappear quickly. The strike of fear at his choice that penetrates his senses is nearly overwhelming, but then Jack remembers his family

 

(  _smiling, warmth, golden-fire hearth and sweet, caring hands. his sister, tiny and joyful_ )

 

and the desire to see them again is so desperate and wild that Jack nearly bites his tongue in his haste to agree. If the Pooka is offering him this chance, then he must take it. To how many others has he done the same? Jack will do what it takes to see his sister and his mother again, to see their smiles and hear their laughter and know that he is safe, alive, unharmed.

 

After all, it isn't as if he has bartered his life. The Pooka has not asked for anything in particular, not yet. Jack hates to think what that could be, but it is his ticket out and he is taking it firmly between shaking hands. He pauses, deliberating even as his thoughts swim, his fingers slowly uncurling from their fisted grip in the Pooka’s fur. The snow crunches and creaks beneath his feet, crumbling between his toes.

 

“What am I to give you?”

 

The Pooka bows his head as if to think, glancing sideways at Jack through those queer, slanted eyes. Is he smiling? Jack cannot tell in the dark.  “Do you hunt?”

 

Jack stares, surprised.

 

Hopeful.

 

“Not often.” He admits.

 

Now the creature straightens to his full height, a slow exhale rumbling in his throat. He continues to watch Jack, his eyes gleaming in their odd manner. The sickly green glow of them highlights something in their depths that Jack cannot quite place. “I would have a doe.” He says, wry. “I was promised one, once.”

 

That is simple enough, Jack supposes, but why, then, does nausea coil in his belly? Why does his head blank in a violent, sudden flash of dismay that makes him tilt unsteadily on his feet, prompting the paws on his body to firm their grip and keep him upright? He does not like to hunt, and he feels sorry that he should have to kill or at the least trap such a helpless animal to sate the beast’s demand, but if it means his freedom…so be it.

 

An easy enough trade.

 

“Okay.” He agrees, even as his gut twists in distrust, and the Pooka chuckles, sending chills up Jack’s spine. "You'll get your doe. You have my word."

 

The chills set a clockwork rhythm in him, one that begins to tick inside Jack like a countdown. Gears settle in place, click together and whir as they move. Another wave of disorientation sweeps through him. Unsteady, he sways, a hand nestling confusedly into his hair, palm against the heat of his temple. New things are happening, now. Things have begun to change. 

 

But which ones?

 

What has he just done?

 

He can sense Bunnymund's smile in much the same manner that one can sense another's next words, or the presence of someone, something, that lingers, hovering in a doorway. He can sense as well this new knowledge in him of something beginning, and he can only hope that is a good kind of omen, however naive it may be of him.

 

"Perfect." Bunnymund says. A laugh thrums just beneath his words, his teeth baring in his amusement. “Then it’s settled. I thank you."

 

The look of his glee sits wrong in Jack’s conscience, prompting him to doubt, his mouth opening to voice the **_WAIT_** his blood drums out in its frenzied beat, but before he can speak or change his mind completely he is ensnared, encased within strong, huge arms.

 

The sharp pain that knifes white-hot into Jack's hip makes him jerk. His scream goes muffled into a thick shoulder, his body twisting in an effort to lose the contact. It throbs on his flesh, this pain, burning him; the Pooka seems not to notice or care about his pain. He only growls abruptly, the sound visceral, guttural, and gut instinct makes Jack freeze immediately, all resistance gone, feeling teeth at his cheek. 

 

The arms squeeze round him tighter, the Pooka mumbling something into Jack's flesh that he cannot make out,

 

and his senses are awash with everything of the Pooka, the heat of him stinging at Jack’s cold skin, every muscle firm beneath the fur and the finer, shorter fur of his arms and his cheek and the way Jack cannot breathe from the force of his grip and they rock to the side, and when he thinks they are going to hit the ground they only fall, and fall, and fall, and as the ground swallows them whole Jack’s vision closes out to black nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: [Houses- Beginnings](https://youtu.be/4JHtv8ZqdnU)


	2. a quiet darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkness: that was all there had been at first, and eventually Jack found himself coming to defeated terms with it. But one night something new came, and it was warmth.

 

 Before, Jack had often dreamt of darkness.

 

In all honesty it had always seemed normal to him, as darkness was a large component of his life. Even in the hottest summers Burgess was cool and well shaded by the large forests that enclosed the village. There was no such thing as sun in one’s eyes, no direct beams to break one out into heavy perspiration. If one actively sought the sunlight they were forced to travel well away from the safety of their numbers, out to the vast fields dotted by the more isolated farms and speckled woods.

 

Tall trees surrounded the swell of cabins, greater in size than any other species in the nearby forests; they cast enormous shadows, enhancing the night's dark to something void-like. Their branches bent over the rooftops, blocking out much light. Rain came often to them, uninhibited and strong, pouring down through the cracks in their cabins’ roofs and muddying up the grass until people’s boots stuck stubbornly in the ground. As a result, dry firewood was an especially sought after resource, precious to the point it was used to trade for clothing and pricy cooking ingredients.

 

So it really was no surprise to Jack that all he dreamt of was black: shadows so thick he felt blind, so utterly caged in by them that often upon waking he'd wept at the sweet comfort of the soft firelight seeping under his door from the kitchen hearth, or the sun's rays in his window.

 

It was near overwhelming at times, this same black void that came to him every night. It was not frightening in the sense that he could see nothing: having gone running through the woods like a fool in the night and stumbling into chilly caves was worse- but somehow this felt more dangerous, filled him to the brim with trepidation. It was the crippling loneliness that plagued him the most: the remnants of that isolation were always difficult to shake off in the morning, something with which his sister sometimes unwittingly helped by running up to him for her morning hug.

 

Jack had spent many days thinking over what these dreams could possibly mean. He came up empty handed every time, no possible explanation making itself available to him. He had a loving family and plenty of wonderful friends. Were these reveries signs of insecurity? Did he harbor some secret fear of loss, or betrayal? He had thought it was a common thing-that this dark place was where everyone went in their sleeping state, some safe haven created by the subconscious to provide a temporary peace of mind as the body rested.

 

They’d begun at an early age, so long ago that Jack could not remember the exact year. But that same darkness had followed after him, year after year until it became the norm. He had never thought anything of it until a lazy conversation with his closer friends, the little group of them all lying on their bellies in the fresh grass as they plucked at the bitter stalks of weeds.

 

They all revealed to him their own dreams (fat dancing ponies with silky manes, large baskets of bread and cheese, a meadow filled with waist-high grass and trees taller than the schoolhouse) and when they had looked to him expectantly, waiting on an equally wondrous vision, Jack had been so shocked he had stammered out a lie of snowflakes and a frozen-over lake.

 

It _bothered_ him.

 

For some time, Jack had tried forcing his dreams to change. He attempted envisioning light: a simple desire, something to warm the cool black nothing behind his eyelids and illuminate his surroundings. But that light never came, no matter how hard he squeezed his eyes shut and willed it to be. He wanted the same happy images his friends received but they seemed to keep their distance from him, leaving him alone on that cold ground in the darkness every night.

 

The darkness: that was all there had been at first, and eventually Jack found himself coming to defeated terms with it. But one night something new came, and it was _warmth_.

 

Suddenly, there was heat gliding through that darkness, permeating the air around him and settling close. To Jack, it felt as though something large and benign had come settling near him, something that had been kept at bay previously for reasons unknown. But it was something new and it was something comforting, and when Jack had gone to grab at it, it had pulled back with a low growl that had struck soft terror into his heart.

 

This novel development had left Jack stunned. He thought over it endlessly, amazed at the difference that heat made, stuck so deeply in his thoughts that often his friends were forced to tug and pull at him to keep him in the present.

 

For thirteen years Jack had dreamt of solitary darkness, and now there was something with him. _There_. In his _dreams_.

 

It should not have unsettled him so much. A dream was a dream was a dream. It was only his imagination, was it not?

 

It should not have _excited_ him, either.

 

Jack began to look forward to his dreams. It was not every night that the warmth returned, but on the quietest, stillest nights, lying neatly covered in his sheets, Jack would feel it approach. It would glide by silently, and from where he sat obediently in the shadows on what he could tell was cool, stiff dirt, he would easily sense it coming, shivering as the pleasing aura of it slid nearer until his back and shoulders were bathed in it.

 

He remembered those dreams the most, because that was when he had learned he was not alone and because it was a relief to know that he was not as isolated as he had originally thought. He remembered the elation he had felt at having this small comfort in his once solitary dreams, the way it had felt protective and watchful, coiled around him like some great invisible snake.

 

Where the presence of some unknown being had once chilled Jack to the bone, it no longer seemed to have such a negative effect on him. In his sleep, he found himself leaning towards it, reaching curiously to touch it and finding himself clutched by deepest, inexplicable despair when it ducked away from his fingers.

 

It avoided or disliked contact of any kind from him, Jack learned quickly and with great disappointment. This eerie dance with his unseen protector went on for some years; Jack aching to touch and see its form, and the creature (was it even that? could it just have been a vision called up by his fearful mind?) recoiling immediately. It was upsetting, but it was all he had, and so he willingly, gratefully clung to it, allowed it to move near and watch over him each night.

 

The day he turned sixteen was the day everything about those dreams changed.

 

Jack had taken longer than usual that night to get in bed. Sometimes he thinks this is why it began: because he dared to deviate from routine, leaving whatever the source of that warmth was to wait for him when it had never had to wait before.

 

He had been out celebrating his birthday with his friends, whooping in gladness and kicking up snow in the woods until it had gotten very late. They had been foolish to stay out so long, he realized later as he climbed into bed, freshly bathed, his skin scrubbed pink. He may not have fully believed in the legends, but safety was better than regret, was it not? Still, nothing had happened, he thought victoriously as he tucked his cold feet beneath his blanket. No dangerous creature had come and snatched them away.

 

He fell easily into his sleep, an expectant smile on his face as he waited for that warmth to return.

 

He did not wait long, but this time it was largely different.

 

Sitting in the dark, Jack had curled up on his side, dragging a shivering palm through the cool earth packed beneath him patiently. Distantly he heard shuffling noises, and he looked up in alarm. There was rarely much sound at all in his dreams. What could this be?

 

Jack lay waiting, and as those gentle noises approached he realized it was the sound of footfalls.  But where could they be coming from? In all the years he had been inhabited this dream, Jack had made sure to explore his surroundings and had eventually concluded that he was underground. Many a time he had put a palm to the walls and realized he was trapped in some strange earthen cage, one where he could feel tiny roots and bits of rock protruding from the sloped walls. But he had never come across any entrance or exit of any type. Had something found its way into his dream?

 

He did not have time to investigate further before that sweet heat came around him again. Distracted, the tension in him bled free, and he let out a little mumble of appreciation. Instantly, the usual wash of sweet protectiveness and safety lulled him; it only occurred to him then that this warmth was what was creating those noises.

 

The footfalls (listening closely, he could hear the soft rustle of heavy feet against the earth) were louder now, nearer, accompanying the fog of heat that had warmed Jack so; he went a little limp, his body leaning instinctively towards it. Apart from the occasional growl and a short huff of breath, Jack had never heard this creature make much noise at all. But he supposed that was all right as long as it was here with him, curled protectively around him as it had done for the past few years.

 

For what felt like several hours Jack lay there, content, his unseen guardian lying near. But then he felt the heat shift (again those footfalls- four distinct ones-was this a wolf?) and he sat up instantly, a plea for it to stay ready on his lips.

 

But the visitor had not been trying to leave him.

 

It crowded in closer to Jack until it had him pinned, its bulk tangible and impressionably soft but _firm_ as it mounted its weight atop him, shocking a soundless gasp from his lips. In increments, he realized that there were paws (large, the pads leathery) on his hips.

 

He twitched in surprise, the contact too new, but there was nothing dangerous about the grip upon him. The paws only contained him, made sure that he kept in his place; there was the sound of something shifting and then Jack could feel thick fur plastering all around him, between his thighs and pressed at his neck, over the backs of his hands and on the slim slice of his belly that peered past the lifted hem of his blouse.

 

There was an animal on top of him.

 

Jack whimpered and squirmed, uncomfortable with these new events. He had only ever wanted the warmth and comfort. He did not know what this new contact sought from him but he was not sure he wanted to give it.

 

He froze. A large wet nose pressed at his neck, whiskers and teeth tickling at him.

 

“Please,” He stammered. He was unsure if it was a plea for more contact or less, but it was a pitiful little sound nonetheless and the creature had not listened.

 

It never did, and that was what Jack always remembered.

 

From then on, he woke every other night breathing hard, remembering the silken press of hot fur on his body and heavy paws cupping at him, running down the insides of his thighs and squeezing until he tore himself back to consciousness, trembling and gasping and drawing his knees up around the erection those paws had coaxed from him. He spent his mornings blinding himself gratefully in the sunlight that washed through his window, letting it warm his cheek as he curled into himself, his entire body thrumming with the unspent desire licking like flames at the depths of his belly. These dreams, once a place for solace and rest, had become something impossibly darker than the ones he’d already known. The creature still slid up to him on silent paws (it was every night now, so much more frequent than he would ever have expected it to be), and this time it let out small noises, touching Jack and sniffing at his neck but still refusing any touches from him, most of which were frightened pushes at what seemed to be fur-spiked shoulders.

 

But it was strong, and every night it grabbed Jack’s wrists and held them firmly, effortlessly restraining his struggles and preventing him from touching it further.

 

What especially frightened Jack was the contact. In truth, it was something of what he had been craving for so long, but to have it granted to him so suddenly and in such intimate areas left him bewildered and frightened. Jack still had no idea what exactly this creature was: the most he’d felt at a time were its paws and nose, the fur he had accidentally brushed frightened fingers through before being restrained. But that was not very indicative at all, and still Jack prayed for a chance to really see it, to understand what this thing was and why it had haunted him for so long, and why now it sought to touch him with such hunger that it left him breathless. 

 

Perhaps what bothered Jack most about these new developments were the results he faced after waking. Many of his mornings were spent clutching a hand over his mouth as the other worked at his cock, jerking until he’d released into his own palm without so much as a muffled cry.

 

It was the shame that clouded over him afterwards when he burrowed into his blankets, refusing to acknowledge the handful of his own semen oozing from his palm and opting instead to close his eyes and press his burning temple to a cool pillow. That such a rough and dangerous creature could elicit such reactions from him made Jack want to weep in disgust. How had things gone so wrong? Had he done something to provoke its wrathful lusts? Was this a punishment inflicted on him by only his own treacherous mind, and no more?

 

( _he would have believed that was the case if it was not for the days that he woke with angry welts across his wrists and above his knees- often they faded fast, but they never failed to make his blood slow and chill- in the mere seconds that they lasted, prone to his wide watery eyes, they showcased to him something far more terrifying- a very real, very physical threat of something that desired him so strongly it could break past the barriers of his suspected imaginations_ )

 

He’d told no one of these dreams, of course. No one had ever known, and no one ever would. Since the first night Jack had felt those paws, firm and real on his flesh, he had resolved to never tell another soul. It was one thing to have to bear their existence, but to have others know as well would have been his downfall.

 

But it had been silly to think the shock and disgust of his fellow villagers would have brought him to public disgrace, if not worse. No, it was- is something else, and he feels it all click together in his mind with morbid perfection: the dreams, the fur, the darkness, the fear and the growls.

 

 No, Jack realizes now, his true downfall has come in the form of the arms wrapped tightly around him and the low chuckle sounding in his ear.

 

I I I I I I

 

A strong, sucking gale buffets at them as they fall. The wind clamors in Jack’s ears, forcing his eyes shut to avoid the spray of his own hair as it is thrust from his face. He cannot see, he cannot hear anything: his fingers knuckle tightly into the creature’s fur, clinging tightly for dear life. The fall drops his stomach with a mighty lurch, and if he was disoriented before now he is utterly helpless, eyes wide with alarm. He screams.

 

Still encased in strong arms, fur ruffling against his face, he sees very little: they drop down into inky darkness, speeding past odd patches of light that glow dim and blue. He cannot make sense of their surroundings. All he knows is that at some point they land, and either the shock of impact is so little that he never notices or the Pooka absorbs it all with his powerful feet, for at some point Jack realizes they are no longer falling, and that he has been pushed to a clinging perch just below powerful shoulders. The sharp blades of them lift and roll hypnotically: he can feel the rocking motions of the Pooka’s movements, proud, thick muscle flush against Jack’s body, rippling and contracting. Of the beast himself Jack cannot see much at all, nothing other than the eager glow of his eyes, green. He would release his clutch on the thick fur and let himself drop if he knew where that were to leave him, but for however long they have been here Jack has seen nothing that could provide him sanctuary or escape.  They take a sharp turn- Jack shrieks again as they descend abruptly, the thundering of great paws thrumming in his ears. What feels like a mere second later, he is being dropped onto soft ground and all the breath whooshes out of him like a bellows.

 

He struggles to get upright but his mind swims viciously, set off balance by the velocity of their arrival. He has heard stories of the Pooka’s speed, but had never believed them to be true. Experiencing it firsthand is something he never would have thought possible. The experience would have been breathtaking if it had been under happier circumstances, but now his life and freedom are in peril and the creature’s amazing speed is the last thing he should be marveling at.

 

He sits up instantly when he hears footfalls near him, scrambling up onto his elbows.

 

( _too familiar, too **familiar;** heaven help him, where has he been taken ? _)

 

The Pooka stares down at him, his gaze one of close evaluation.

 

“Well, don’t you look a pretty sight there.” He says, and Jack frowns, looking down in surprise to see that he is in some kind of nest. Beneath him, there is what feels like soft grass and loosely packed earth, numerous tufts of shedded black fur lining it. It is the Pooka’s nest, Jack realizes. He cringes away without hesitation, skin crawling with disgust. This is where, if the stories are to be trusted, victims have been brought and ripped into, debased and humiliated for their sins. How many lives have been cut short here? Is this where his own life will end, where his memories and breaths alike will crumble and dissolve to nothing? Will his blood dry out here on this ground, would the Pooka enjoy smelling it when he reclines into the soft earth to rest?

 

Bunnymund watches silently, unmoved by Jack's disgust. His eyes, though already lit green, glow eerily in the low light. There is a queer shine to them now that was not present before; he looks at Jack and for several moments does not speak, only assesses the look of him there in the darkness with a severity Jack does not care to decipher. What is he thinking of right this moment? What thoughts pass through his mind that demand his attention so? Are his thoughts 'Shall I cut the throat and lap the blood' or 'I'll have a taste of his hip first'?

 

When he blinks the tranquil oddness from his gaze, he resumes his speech like nothing has interrupted it at all. “Not comfortable enough?”

 

Jack bites his lip before answering, looking around his new environment with wide, stunned eyes.

 

The nest- or this part of it anyway, is larger than Jack expected, its only light source a dim glow that emanates from strange, foreign looking blue-green clusters of flowers. They appear to provide little light on their own, but grouped together in such a manner they well illuminate several corners of the area; the glow seeps across the ground, casting the shadows from where they hunker. A wide ring of them circles around the nest's outer edge. Beautiful, alien decor for so terrible a place. The nest beneath his feet is soft, not uncomfortable in the least, but Jack cannot help wondering if bones, or bodies, lie beneath.  Unused to the severe lack of light, he must resort to squinting to find the Pooka's figure amongst the darkness.

 

“This- you-you said you’d take me home.“ Jack accuses, and the Pooka laughs, as though what he has just said is absurd. He realizes suddenly that perhaps it is; how could he have possibly trusted so cruel a creature to keep his word?  He is going to end up dead before the hour is gone. He must do something, anything.

 

“True, I did.” Bunnymund admits, still laughing. Stepping closer, he stoops to Jack’s level, cupping his pale cheek in his large, rough paw. His eyes, caught in the flowers’ glow, are sharp and knowing, pinning Jack with a calculating gaze and never once letting go. “But I never said when.”

 

HIs paw feels more familiar than it ever should have; Jack shies away from it instantly, afraid.

 

 “Please.” He says, and for the moment that is really all he can manage, because the creature is enormous compared to him and the strength he’d felt in that mere touch had set his knees shaking, because he has seen all this before. He cannot successfully delude himself into thinking this is all new: this is where he has been all those past nights, this is where he was pinned beneath a punishing weight and used so brutally, there is no mistaking it. “Please-“

 

“Please what?” Bunnymund inquires nastily, his tone one of annoyance. “You’re not the first to beg, Overland. Remember that. It gets boring fast.”

 

“Take me home.” Jack manages. His throat feels as though it has been filled with sawdust, he feels he might choke on his words at any moment. Would it be an easier death than the one that awaits him in those claws, those teeth? “You said-“

 

“But this  _is_ home.” The Pooka gestures around the nest, smiling wide. He leans in and Jack shrinks back hastily: he immediately realizes his mistake as his back hits a crumbling earthen wall, and in his panic he shoves his palms at Bunny’s chest and shoulders, desperate for space between them, as much as he can gain. But the Pooka is solid and strong, and his fists do nothing at all- his fingertips sink into the thick of his fur and he shivers wildly, yanking them away like he has been stung.

 

He has felt this fur before. He knows this strength.

 

“I know what I said.” Bunnymund drawls, oblivious to Jack’s thoughts of recognition. But the satisfaction that lies coiled in his eyes- perhaps he is aware. He must be, how can he not? Those teeth, the way his lips curl back to reveal them grinning so- he knows, he _knows_ all that he has done, the extent of damages of he has caused. But can that be possible? It all feels too unreal. “Believe me, I’ll make good on my promise. You’ll just have to give me something in return.”

 

His nose presses to Jack’s neck, and Jack cannot help the violent shiver that tears up his spine at the sensation.

 

“Like what?”

 

Jack closes his eyes and foolishly, uselessly prays the creature will ask for something easily obtained. The long drag of a tongue up his jaw tells him otherwise. Jack turns his face away to suppress the plea on his tongue; his insides turn to ice. “What of the doe you asked me for?”

 

The enormous creature twitches an ear. “A lie.”

 

Those paws have settled onto his hips, and the fur that tufts around the pads is velvety, though the pads themselves are leathery with centuries of use. One rubs at his bare hip, having already pushed Jack’s shirt up for space. He wants to pull away, he wants to scream and shove away from the touch, but he is trapped, and the paws and breaths upon his skin are hot, large, powerful. Bunnymund’s paws are heavy with his vigor, his claws delicately pinching at Jack’s skin.

 

The struggle to keep his voice stable is quickly lost. A shuddering gasp tears from Jack’s throat; his head tilts back, the dizziness he had suffered beforehand perhaps even stronger now. Tears spring to his eyes; shame burns his cheeks a vibrant red. His voice comes weakly. “Then what would you have?”

 

“Yourself.”

 

Disgust rises in Jack’s throat. He begins to push again at the Pooka’s frame; the paw that easily scoops up his wrists and holds him half-immobile is brutal, a living manacle. He cannot remain calm anymore, not when he has been stupid enough to strike a deal with the creature without fully considering the consequences. Now he is caught and Bunnymund is going to kill him and Jack is absolutely certain he has stroked his fingers through this fur before.

 

"No!” Jack hisses, bile on his tongue and sweat breaking out on his temples. Dismayed at his situation's turnout, he is forced to turn away his tears for fear of seeming weaker than he already is, for fear of embarrassing himself in the face of death. "No, never!"

 

“I want you, Overland.” The Pooka hisses, tall ears going flat against his head. Bared again to the dim blue light, his teeth are inches from Jack's cheek, so sharp they could slice right through. “And I _will_ have you. Try and resist me.”

 

“I can give you anything else!” Jack pleads, but his offer falls short and dry in the air. What does he have that a creature so dark and ancient as Bunnymund would want?

 

"I need nothing but you." The creature’s voice is so satisfied that it makes Jack want to scream. A paw slides up to his neck and he shivers, feeling it trace its way down his clothed back and grip into a buttock. "Didn't you know you're already mine?"

 

“Get off me!” Jack shouts, his voice rising several octaves.  He thrashes wildly beneath the large creature, and terrified, wayward tears begin to slip down his face, chilling him. A furious snarl comes from the Pooka: for a moment Jack is certain he will not make it out of this nest alive. He flinches back and squeezes his eyes shut, hoping for a quick death.

 

When no bite or strike comes, he risks opening one eye, then the other. Above him, the Pooka’s eyes are hooded, and even in the low light it is evident he is thinking hard on something. Whether he is distracted by his own thought or something his new quarry has said, Jack is grateful for the temporary relief. He exhales a whispering sob, but does not once look away from the Pooka, certain that the very second he does it will all be done and over in a flash of claws and fury. 

 

Not bothered in the least by Jack's protests, Bunnymund looks up at the nest's darkened ceiling, his nostrils flaring visibly and sniffing interestedly at something, ears cocked and alert to the world above. He has caught some newer, more interesting scent- he has heard someone above. Jack swears he can see some dreadful idea forming there, a new plan for a new kill. Abruptly, Bunnymund straightens up and drags his claws over Jack's cheek in what feels like the thousandth caress he has laid to that pretty pale skin. 

 

“Don’t fret.” He murmurs, the distraction forgotten. His voice is unfairly smooth, liquid in a way that makes Jack’s knees shake.  “I wouldn’t ruin you like the others.”

 

Jack releases a whispery breath and nods, blinking rapidly past the tears that stream down his face. He is not entirely sure what Bunnymund means but it is an opportunity to prolong his death and that is good enough for him. Another will die in his place, he realizes slowly, remembering the way the Pooka had glanced upwards, his eyes slitting. Are they aware of where they stand? Does easier prey truly wait above or is this a trick of some kind?

 

“Good.”

 

The Pooka leans in again, sticking that wet nose again into Jack’s neck and taking deep pulls of his scent, memorizing it. He seems obsessed with the smell, Jack thinks to himself dully, taking long moments to stay there and breathe it in; Bunnymund closes his eyes for the few seconds he rests there, like he has just smelled the most exquisite thing. “I’ll be back later, sweetheart.” He says when he pulls away, and without warning disappears into a tunnel, leaving Jack very much alone in the dark.

 

He returns much later, and by then Jack has become a dirty, trembling mess.

 

In truth Jack does not truly know how much time has passed since Bunnymund first left him. It could be one day or several, or if they are even days at all. The time passed could simply have been a handful of hours, but there is no way of knowing.

 

Again the loneliness has returned, but this time it is worse than in his dreams and it is real and he is being held captive by the terrible creature his elders had always warned him about. The dreams, the stories, everything: it is all real, it has been real all this time and Jack is trapped in the midst of its impossible web. It is enough to leave him a sobbing mess.

 

He cannot help it.

 

For hours, he pounds reddened fists on the nest’s sloping walls, shouting and crying out at the top of his lungs for help. Anyone could hear him, he convinces himself, all it takes is a proper scream to be heard, and then they will dig down into the earth and break past this crushing dark to free him. He is underground, he knows that much, but how far below? How has he not yet suffocated? Will his attempts at being found prove fruitless?

 

Jack spends those two days trying to escape.

 

He scratches and scoops with trembling hands into the earthen walls, pulling away crumbling bits of dirt and thinning roots as he goes. For hours he scrabbles at the earth until it is caked underneath his fingernails and bits of it have found their way onto him, smudged on his cheeks and in his hair, scraping it all away as he climbs into the walls in an attempt to dig upward. The earth is cold and frozen in some areas, blistering and biting at his fingertips and leaving them sore and bloody, but none of that matters, because it is his only means of escape. He does not dig very far before it grows utterly black in his little tunnels and he must give up his progress for lack of a mobile light source. Briefly, he entertains the idea of breaking a cluster of the light flowers and carrying them along, but he is not familiar with them- would they cease their soft glow as soon as he snaps their stems? Would their light carry very far?

 

Maybe, he thinks desperately, maybe he is close to the surface. Maybe the Pooka’s nest is situated nearby his village. Perhaps, if he were to escape, he could find his way back.

 

He clings fast to that hope, roping it around himself like a veil of protection. It is all he has.

 

Save for the glowing flowers, Bunnymund’s nest is the exact same location he has been dreaming of all this time. He is sure of it. The darkness is the same as any other, but the place itself, the soil underneath his feet: it calls quietly to him, small whispers of

 

( _you have been here before and will remain_ _forevermore_ )

 

in his mind that make him press the heels of his palms against his temples to stifle it, murmuring chains of "no, not true, not true-" in his denial. 

 

Jack pulls at a gnarled, wiry root, sniffling loudly to hold back a fresh wave of tears. He digs blindly now, lost to all directions and unsure of how far back he has left the nest. The solid earthen walls are close around his body, but not uncomfortably slow. It is better here than in the nest- here he can curl in on himself and bury his face in his hands, close his eyes and pretend he is asleep in his mother's cabin, he can pretend it is merely another normal night and he is so deeply asleep he does not dream of anything but the blackness that comes to him. For some time he stays huddled within his little alcove in the walls- here he feels safer, less vulnerable. Would the Pooka return and upon finding nothing, think him gone, or would he easily smell out Jack's stress? Would the darkness fool even he that comes from it?

 

No, Jack knows. It would not. 

 

And so, after long hours, days, weeks, however long it has been since the Pooka has abandoned him here in this strange isolation and fear, he crawls out from within the wall, stiff-limbed and tearful with the uselessness of his attempts.

 

It should be impossible and it should not make the least bit of sense, everything that is happening here. This creature and his home, the constant setting of Jack's dreams, are abominations; none of this can be true.

 

But those dreams-

 

they are all he can think of.

 

All this time, he has been dreaming of the Pooka. Since he was a _child_. What does this mean? Has he been predicting this situation- his own possible demise since birth? Why? Why is that fur so familiar, those growls so recognizable? Why has he been seeing such destructive, terrible things for so long? Is it all just borne of his fear of darkness, or is it the work of some unholy doings that somehow involve him?

 

A sob finds its way past his lips and Jack sinks against the mess of dirt he has created, trembling from cold and exhaustion. He has not eaten since he left home. He has not stopped digging since Bunnymund left.

 

He does not know which is worse- the fear of death or of Bunnymund’s return.

 

Eventually the exhaustion hits him hard. Fruitless attempts at escape and what feels like endless tears have left him limp as a rag, and Jack passes out instantly on the cold ground. The stress of his captivity and urgent desire for escape have taken an immense toll on his nerves: it has made his body rigid and tense, and the deeper he falls into slumber the more it lessens, relieving his body of the strain. It is a small comfort, and he gives in to it slowly, reluctant to fall asleep and be found vulnerable should the Pooka return.

 

In his dream, Jack lies curled up beneath the Pooka’s possessive grasp and sobs as it poisons his lips with black blood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: [Houses- A Quiet Darkness](https://youtu.be/BHsZ6I6yuDo)


	3. in the earth's unholy din

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That’s the stupid thing about humans, Bunnymund thinks as he strokes Jack's pale, tearstained cheek silently. Their willingness to believe blindly in things, little regard for others but themselves and a brilliant capacity for denial and destruction.

 

The only difference now between Jack’s dreams and reality is that now he knows who is there with him, and now there is some light.

 

It is a cruel mockery of his naiveté that he remembers each dream so clearly- each night he spent lying in the cool dirt, happily awaiting that warmth and the sense of reassurance that he had some kind companion with him in the dark- some unknown being that, even if it rebuked his touch, sought to keep him under its protective watch.

 

What is worse is how better he recalls the devastation and bruising shame of the later dreams, the ones that grew so heavy and sinister as he'd aged and left him scarred upon waking.

 

Is he losing his mind? Or has he been without it all along?

 

He has been sleeping too long, now. A half-sigh escapes his lips; his fingers spasm briefly in the dirt as his body stirs to consciousness, shoulders pushing forward gently as he yawns.

 

Opening his eyes, Jack purses his lips and blinks blearily at the strange plants that greet him just a few yards ahead. The unusual blue light, something curiously lacking in his dreams, pulsates sleepily from within their petals. The stalks are reedy and thin, dewy and angelic in their ethereal aura, and the leaves are ribbed and thick, half the size of his hands.

 

It is an odd, odd thing, the flowers' glow. He is afraid to go nearer to them even if there is nothing threatening about their presence- after all, they are his prison's only light source. They have poor reach, however, as the light this strange new flora casts is not enough to illuminate the whole of the nest. There are more clumps of the flowers lining the sloped walls further down from where he lies and smaller patches creeping forth from others, but there are still large corners of black surrounding them that he cannot see through.

 

Jack turns away from them and rests his cheek in the crook of his elbow, sighing. The nearest blossom sways from the little gust of breath, its glow flickering, for a short second, more brightly than the others.

 

How can something so beautiful coexist in such a space with such a creature as the Pooka?

 

The light is his only solace. It makes the darkness around him blur at the edges and leaves it looking, if only for the shortest moments in which he can deceive himself, softer and more welcoming. Jack is not surprised to find how grateful he is for the pretty, lit-up blooms. If it were not for them he would be lost to the darkness, babbling and clawing at the walls in wide-eyed terror.

 

At least like this he can die with some dignity, he thinks. Only a little less afraid.

 

There is a noise somewhere behind him.

 

Urged to his feet by the fear that comes after, Jack frowns as he peers into the darkness, his feet sinking into the soft soil and layered amounts of shed fur. The flowers do not do much to show what is here with him, but what he hears tell him enough, and he recoils from the scene as if burnt from the horror of it.

 

The Pooka lies on his belly in front of Jack, his own fur so inky that it would be hard to distinguish him from the nest's own emptiness if it were not for the reflection of the flowers' light in his eyes, and the luster of it on his glossy fur. Though his eyes are intent on Jack’s prone form he looks completely at ease, silent except for the occasional snuffling noises that come from his nose. He does not lie exceptionally close, but even then the warmth of his large body is intense: as soon as Jack scrambles away his body clamors for it, and he almost immediately begins to quiver in the nest's cold air.

 

Did he ever truly leave? Has he been watching Jack all this time?

 

“Did you sleep well?” Bunnymund repeats, watching him.

 

“Get away from me.” Jack spits.

 

It is rare that he resorts to physical violence, but he has never had hatred and fear crackling so loudly in his lungs, either. Jack lashes out in an attempt to strike the Pooka’s nose with the heel of his foot but the creature is fast and the move is anticipated well before he can land it. A large paw darts up to snatch his foot from the air and he is yanked so close that Jack loses his balance. Stumbling, he lets out an angry noise of protest as he is trapped against the Pooka's broad chest, lying on the mess of dirt he created hours earlier in his attempts to escape.

 

“That’s no way to treat your buck, now is it, pet?” Comes the deep rumble in his ear. Bunnymund's voice in Jack’s ear is smooth as rain-slicked grass, rough as an angry wolf’s bark, so full of amusement and smugness that Jack nearly bites his tongue in his rage. As if it weren’t enough to be tricked into captivity! The sheer horror of the merriment in those eyes!

 

“Let me go!” He demands, doing his best to writhe away from the creature. “I’m not your pet-“

 

A long tongue drags along his neck and Jack shakes wildly, his words failing him as he struggles to move away, horrified at the blatant hunger in the gesture, the tightening of the grip on his wrist and the way the larger body behind him seems to tremble in excitement.

 

( _he could be slit open from the throat to the belly now and he could scream and thrash and sob and no one would hear a thing- no one would hear or find him so deep underground, no one would dare come near enough to pry his body free from the demonic creature's claws_ )

 

A cold voice cuts into his thoughts, snapping at him like the burst of flames to dry wood. It is one he has never heard before- certainly not a remembered voice or that of his own conscience.

 

( _no one would **care**_ **.** )

 

Jack swallows a hysterical wail down just as the tongue retracts into the mouth to speak.

 

“You are.” Bunnymund states matter-of-factly, licking his lips. He strokes a paw through Jack’s hair, the caresses weighty and severe. “Mine. You’ve been so since you set foot in this forest, and long before that as well.”

 

Jack’s denial dies quickly on his tongue. His face goes pale. “What do you mean?”

 

He does not receive an answer. Instead, Jack does his best to keep still as Bunnymund spreads his fingers and delves them deep into his hair until he is touching scalp, those terrible claws pulling and tangling as they sift neatly through his hair. Squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to block it out is a waste of effort, as in the darkness of his mind all he can picture is sharp teeth crushing his neck and claws piercing through defenseless flesh to reach his lungs.

 

What Jack knows of the creature's lore is limited.

 

He never knew for certain if the tales were result of speculation or confirmed fact- no one had ever bothered, it seemed, to discern the real truths. Gossip and altered tales went far better amongst the public: mothers told their children to behave lest the Pooka lure them into his woods to violently reprimand them for any misbehavior, fathers told their sons to be on guard always, for the terrible creature possessed a hunger neither limited nor satiable, and any taken under their watch would be a strike of red on their hands when the feared day of Judgement came.

 

Most commonly it was always said that the Pooka only sought after the dark-hearted, those that harbored festering secrets deep inside and sinned without repentance.

 

Jack has done some bad things, he knows- he has teased the local children and relentlessly played his meaningless tricks for sport. Perhaps sometimes he has gone a little too far in his games, but it is a childish thing, done for attention and laughter and fun when he cannot find it given freely.

               

 _( when all he wanted was a kind smile and he was given only side-eyed looks, when some avoided his presence and walked faster past him_ )

 

But Jack has never meant any harm through it all. He has never felt any malicious urge to hit and cause tears or say hurtful things as some of the children do, the unruly ones that throw stones when backs are turned. That he is aware of, he has not done any great sin worthy of being dragged so low into the earth: so then why is here? Why has the Pooka deemed him a suitable victim when Jack is sure that the worst thing he has done in his life was to lie about eating the last breadcrust in the pantry?

 

He has never thoroughly believed in the nonsense the village children are told of the Pooka: part of this is thanks to Philipe, whom actively dismissed the stories of warning and told Jack all he needed to know was that none of that silliness was true. Now more than ever he suspects the village still knows little to nothing of the creature's true manner or intentions: all they tell and pass off as truth concerning the Pooka is product of their fearful, doubting minds, and no more. The Pooka has always been known (and this is one small thing he knows to be true, for lack of any else) to be elusive and remain hidden in the darkness: if he is so much a rarity how would they claim to know the reasoning behind his killings?

 

Another thing he knows to be certain, proven true by the venerable book of records (passed from hand to hand, kept secure by those with highest power in the village, with its endless worn pages of fading ink and lists of empty names): the Pooka has been haunting the woods for longer than any in the village have been alive. He has never seen the book itself in person, but whispers of its leathery pages filled with detailed recounts of every occurrence, every supposed encounter, every found victim, run afoul within any circle of gossip.

 

“Just take me home.” Jack mumbles. “Please.”

 

For now he has settled into a stubborn reluctance. He assumes most victims would be dead at this point- he has been captured and now he is being kept, yes, but that does not mean he is going to roll over and accept his death so easily. The hope for reunion with his family still burns in him: he is going to do his best to make it back to the village and see his sister again, his mother and even the rest of them, even those who spoke to him as though he had done something to be ashamed of from the very beginning. Panicking will not help his situation. He cannot help the struggling, for the creature's wandering paws and searching licks turn his arms to gooseflesh and he does not want that tongue anywhere near him, but he will do his best to remain alive.

 

The fight has not been taken from him yet- he is merely biding his time.

 

Bunnymund has taken to sniffing at Jack’s hair. His nose presses into the spaces behind his ears and beneath his chin, along his shoulders and the back of his neck. It is almost incredibly ticklish- Jack blinks away from his thoughts and struggles not to flinch at the touches and soft whuffs of breath against his neck, keeping as still as possible. He does not know if the sound surging up his throat is a giggle or a plea.

 

When everything goes quiet and still, Jack freezes, terrified of an incoming attack or the raking of claws into his cheek. No sound or movement comes. Curiously, Jack turns his wrist and watches as the Pooka's paw falls loose from his wrist.

 

Quickly taking the opportunity to push away, Jack's heart hammers in his chest as he frees himself of the grasp, his lungs expanding gratefully to suck in air that is not shared by the Pooka. His heart leaps to his throat in surprise when he stumbles over something hard and nearly falls into a bed of those odd flowers.

 

( _he scrambles away from them quickly, confusingly and overwhelmingly glad he did not manage to trample_ )

 

Still situated on his belly, lying on the dirt with his front paws where Jack had pushed them away, Bunnymund’s form is shadowy and large, head cocked subtly to the side. For all Jack knows he could be listening to the whispers of ghosts, the tread of a pair of feet far up above them.

 

How many have died with this as their last sight?

 

Because he does not look poised to kill, Jack allows himself a moment to relax and observe the creature with what dim light there is. Something in him senses the moment, despite its look, is not dangerous; he will not be killed just yet, and so he settles into the dirt, sitting with his legs crossed, and waits, and watches.

 

Bunnymund's ears, tall and firm, are perked to full height as though he listens to something no other can hear, his eyes glowing just as the flowers do, but softer, green. As still as he lies there, he looks sharp and alert, aware of his surroundings but for the moment concerned with something far more important.

 

This leaves out any chance Jack could have had of attacking.

 

He did not have any in the first place, considering the obvious advantages Bunnymund has on him in height and strength. He knows it would be foolish to try, anyway; even if he somehow did manage to dispatch of his captor, what possible chance would he have of escaping the nest? He cannot dig, nor does he have magic tunnels to transport himself quickly back to the surface.

 

When he had been taken, there had only been a double tap of Bunnymund’s hind paw to the ground and they had been falling straight down, passing through another tunnel's entrance as the air rushed up past Jack and stole away his scream. How was it that the earth so readily complied to this creature's command to open, and parted to let him through? What had given him this power? Moreso, why did his eyes glow and why was he so humanoid? Had he been a man once?

 

The questions tumble into the walls of Jack's mind until his temples throb in exasperation. How odd, how entirely strange that after so many years of hearing and wondering and doubting at the Pooka's existence here stands the living proof before him. How much he has seen already, that the others have could not have dreamed (or would not, rather, as none in their right mind would be willing to be in Jack's position, even if it were to prove the stories true) of ever witnessing! How infuriating that he is left with more questions than when he began!

 

Bunnymund looks at him then, snapping out of his silent daze in a slow blink and low tilting of his ears.

 

“Eat.” He demands. He does not seem to care that Jack left his hold.

 

Jack does not understand what he means, not until he follows Bunnymund's gaze to the side and realizes that the hard object he had stumbled over in his haste to retreat was a small gathering of apples and what appears to be a handful of berries gathered in a large leaf.

 

Still haunted by the remnants of his dreams and the shock of his capture, it is hard for him to fully process what is going on. Perhaps he is still dreaming? This could all be happening in his head, another one of his odd dreams taken one large step forward. Perhaps he is already dead and this is all his own personal hell, an eternal punishment for disobeying the rules he’d known since birth and letting himself be caught.

 

“What?” He asks, lost. He is being fed now?

 

Bunnymund yawns and stretches out his front paws. Jack watches nervously as he rises onto all fours, following every subtle movement for the fear that he will suddenly tense and spring forward and crush Jack to the ground. He nearly resembles a gigantic wolf, his tread purposeful and confident. Approaching Jack, he nudges the fruits closer, setting the apples rolling across the black dirt until they have bumped gently against Jack's toes, garishly red in the blandness of everything around them. “I said eat.”

 

They could be poisoned, Jack thinks, observing the apple but making no move to touch it.

 

“I haven’t done anything to them, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Bunnymund says. He lowers himself onto his belly again, looming before Jack even as he rests. Again he reaches out and grabs Jack’s neck before he can react, but this time the grip is gentler, and the upwards drag of his paw to Jack’s cheek as he pushes a tuft of hair away is almost a caress. “Trust me. If I were to kill you I’d want the pleasure of doing it myself.”

 

Jack desperately wants to turn up his nose at the food, but what good would that possibly do him?

 

Common sense and hunger force his hand out to take an apple. He bites into it hesitantly and the crunch of his teeth on the yielding skin is deafening to his ears; Bunnymund's own flick in response. The apple's flesh is juicy, tender: starved and overwhelmed at the simple, sweet taste, Jack eats one apple and then the other, leaving the yellowing cores in a tidy pile by his knee. He moves on to the berries this time more slowly, chewing them in silence until he can eat no more and his hands are sticky and stained red with their juices. It is terribly reminiscent of blood: unsettled, Jack quickly wipes his hands on his pants and in the dirt, wanting it gone.

 

Bunnymund watches it all without comment. When he sees Jack has finished he lets out a satisfied hum, a low note from the depths of his throat.

 

“Good pet.” He says, smirking when he sees the outrage on Jack’s face. It broils temptingly beneath his skin, whispering to Jack for a release- he wants to shout, throw things, but he knows that will do him no favors here.

 

“Why am I still here?” Jack demands. “Are you keeping me purely because you enjoy my suffering?”

 

He shrinks away from the paw that reaches for him, but the creature reacts fast, snatching Jack’s ankle and squeezing tight enough that no matter how much Jack jerks and kicks his leg the hold does not relent. It is a surprisingly tame hold- with arms that size Jack knows the Pooka could snap every bone he wished.

 

A large thumb caresses the pale flesh of his leg, rubbing a pattern of circles. Jack swallows; the creature likes to hold him like this, he has noticed. To hold him restrained, immobile or close to it.

 

Their gazes lock together, Jack with his leg half curled in the air, the resistance melted from him. The Pooka’s look is grave.

 

“Would you rather I returned you to your misery?” He asks.

 

He leaves before Jack can respond, coiling tight on his legs and then springing past him into the darkness, disappearing into a tunnel Jack hadn’t even known was there. Quickly, he lunges towards it, hoping wildly he will be able to slip through and find an exit, but the tunnel closes up instantly behind the Pooka like it never even existed (how does this trickery work?) and Jack is left gripping at the dirt.

 

When Bunnymund reappears a short second later, it is through a different tunnel, and this time he is holding a thrashing something firmly in his arms.

 

Stunned, Jack watches as the Pooka flings his victim into his nest, and feels his heart drop into his stomach when he sees it’s a boy, golden haired and bleeding profusely from the claw-inflicted gash set deep into his abdomen.

 

Dressed in elaborate clothing, richly colored and woven from strange fabrics Jack has never seen before, he looks gaunt and ashen, already suffering from bloodloss. Wet with his blood, the clothing clings to his form and frays away from the wound, showcasing a terrible display of exposed flesh and gushing red. When his body meets the ground he lets out a weak sound of pain but does not attempt to get up, either too exhausted to move or too afraid.

 

He looks young, sixteen at the most.

 

“Stop it.” Jack says faintly, watching as Bunnymund climbs over the boy and pins him, leaning in close to bare his teeth and snarl, his ears flattening back against his head. The boy (he looks so  _young_ ) shrinks back into the earth and wails in fright, hands trembling as they reach weakly up to shield his face.

 

He speaks in a language Jack does not know; it sounds like babbling almost, and though Jack does not understand a word it quickly becomes apparent that Bunnymund does. The Pooka spits out a hissed response as he rips into the boy’s shirt, exposing his sickly wound. He pauses to whisper something into his ear with a sly, terrible smile and licks up the side of his captive's terrified face, breathing out harshly in his excitement.

 

The new victim struggles hard, kicking up his legs in protest. When Bunnymund rears up to strike him, he lets out a shrill scream, squeezing his eyes shut. His head is snapped to the side with the strength of the blow, so much so that even from where Jack stands at a distance he can see the way it has left him utterly dazed and silent. His eyelids flutter as though he cannot see, mouth working open to find air that will not come.

 

Jack's heart lurches in his chest, sickened at the sight. He does not know who this boy is, nor does he know where he comes from or what language he speaks. Jack has never seen him before in his life.

 

But he will not sit by and watch someone be mercilessly abused.

 

“Stop!” Jack shouts, scrambling to his feet. He closes the distance between them and yanks at the Pooka's ears without thinking, desperate to see him away from the boy he has brought in.

 

The snarl Bunnymund lets out is enough to set his legs shaking in fear. The hairs on Jack’s arms and neck bristle in terror but he stands his ground, even as he is brutally grabbed by the neck and slammed into the opposite wall, leaving the foreign boy a shuddering mess on the ground as thin dustings of dirt come loose from the walls and earthen ceiling around them from the force of impact. Gasping for air, Jack claws at the paw around his neck, wincing when bloodied claws pierce carefully at his skin like a needle on a fingertip.

 

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, pet, and I like that.” Bunnymund says, his voice hauntingly calm. “But I like an obedient doe more, and that’s clearly a trait you’re lacking. I’ll have to teach you right.”

 

 _Doe_ ?

 

“No-please!” Jack pleads past the bruising grip on his throat. He clutches around the paws that hold him, trying to pry them off, aware that the boy has little time left. He wonders if this stranger understands what is happening- if he knows he is about to die and that he is not alone, that there is someone here, however weak, however much a stranger, who is vouching for him, who cares enough to let death be stopped or halted for even just a moment longer. Can there be no worse thing than dying alone, lost, wounded? “Don’t hurt him!”

 

“Don’t hurt him?” Bunnymund repeats, laughing. “If you knew what he's done I doubt you'd be pleading for his life then.”

 

And then he pauses and his eyes brighten, and Jack knows he has gotten a terrible idea.

 

Bunnymund leans in until his nose is buried in Jack’s neck, and when he speaks Jack feels the wet flick of his tongue and whiskers. He cannot help it; he begins to cry.

 

He thinks of the boy lying helpless in the nest, bleeding out onto the ground. He must have a family somewhere, people that miss him, perhaps a sister that needs his care and guidance. How can Bunnymund kill so mindlessly, strike from the earth a life as though it were a mere pebble in the grass?

 

“You’ve heard the _stories_.” Bunnymund whispers to him, the inflection mocking, as if he finds them amusing or ridiculous. Something gleams in his eye, likely buried annoyance. “I kill the wicked, Overland. Don’t you see? This little bloke’s done something naughty, and now I’m going to make him pay for it.”

 

“He’s just a child!” Jack sobs. Distantly, he can hear the boy’s pained breathing, loud in their earthen prison. Wicked or not, he cannot allow this creature to kill him, not while he can do something about it.

 

“And what does that make you then, an adult?” Bunnymund scoffs. His eyes are still affected by the adrenaline of the fight and the capture: their catlike slits narrow on Jack. “Don’t play savior for someone you don’t know, pet. It’ll end badly for you both.”

 

Jack is not listening. He can still hear the boy, watches over Bunnymund’s shoulder as he presses a faltering hand to his wound and sobs.

 

“Don’t hurt him.” He repeats, and does not resist when a paw grabs at his chin and forcefully directs his gaze to Bunnymund’s. “Please. Hurt me in his place, I don’t care.  Just let him go.”

 

He does not know if the subtle surprise on Bunnymund’s face is a welcome sight or not. “Think over what you’re saying. You’re willing to put yourself in his place knowing he’s a bad sort?”

 

Without hesitation, Jack nods. “Please.” He says again, because he cannot say it enough. If he truly has done something wrong to be brought here, then at least while he is trapped he can do something to right it.

 

Suddenly turned pensive and silent, Bunnymund stares into Jack’s eyes as though reading every memory and dream and thought he has ever had; his thumb releases its rough press into Jack’s airways and taps thoughtfully against his skin as he gasps in a breath. When he speaks again, Jack’s tears have begun to dry and the boy in the nest is close to making no noise at all.

 

“Alright, then.” He says, and drops Jack back onto his feet. He smiles wide, teeth glinting as he licks at Jack’s cheek again, the remnants of which Jack wipes furiously at with his sleeve. A laugh breaks from the Pooka’s voice, though Jack gets the impression it does not have to do with the situation at hand. “Deal.”

 

In the time it takes for Jack to cough and rub once at his neck, Bunnymund has already gone. He moves far too quickly to track accurately in the dark: he is there, and then he is hunched over the nest and the boy and then he is gone in seconds. There is only a streak of wet earth in the nest now, ending abruptly where he’d hauled the boy into his arms and leapt down a new tunnel.

 

Jack sinks to his knees in the mess of it. His mind feels like it is come unattached from something vital. Everything feels as though it is moving much too slowly, even though all he has for sensory stimulation is the sound of his own tears and the drenched soil beneath his knees. He reaches out to touch the ground and blinks rapidly when he feels the cooling blood there, and his body begins to shake.

 

In this state of disorientation, he does not know how long Bunnymund is gone for. It feels like he is only been knelt in the dirt for all of a few seconds when the Pooka returns.

 

There is a distinct smell on his hot breath and bloody fur that Jack cannot name, but even if he could he makes no accusations. Shell-shocked, Jack does not react when the Pooka stretches out onto his side in the dirt, extending his massive arms, which are remarkably empty of a victim of any kind. Jack does not protest when he is pulled down alongside him, nor when heavy paws tuck him into a broad furred chest. He does not speak up when Bunnymund curls his larger body over Jack’s either.

 

No punishment comes, at least not yet. For now, Bunnymund seems intent on having Jack close.

 

Breathing feels troublesome now, encumbered by the heavy bruising over his neck and the careful damage that has been inflicted on it. Folded intricately into the Pooka’s arms, Jack feels trapped and abandoned, and the thin layer of blood he picked up from the dirt begins to crust on his hands, turning a brownish shade of rust. Too dazed to properly react, he will not notice this until later.

 

He does not hear Bunnymund’s story.

 

( _deep in the protective recesses of his mind, jack is happy and home. he kisses his mother’s cheek and holds his sister by the hand. there is food on the table and the hearth glows with warmth. here in this safe little pocket of his wishful thinking he is well and protected, and nothing that has transpired over the past two and a half days have ever come close to happening. the laughter and meaningless chatter of friends and relatives alike almost works well enough to drown out the voice that rumbles overhead, the voice that draws alarm in him even there. he hears but makes no move to comprehend as it explains that far from Burgess, there is a country in which a dying king and his two young sons lived_ )

 

Bunnymund watches him sleep, dutifully clearing away the tears streaked down Jack's face with gentle swabs of his fingers.

 

He licks and sniffs at his hair as Jack mumbles brokenly, tightening his hold on the boy when he begins to shift and twitch, either from cold or from the disruptive dreams.

 

It has been days now and still his heart has not yet ceased its delighted shuddering. He cannot count on it slowing in the foreseeable future: it is difficult enough already keeping himself from his truer wants.

 

He explains because he knows Jack will not remember this later, and because he has not had a chance before to truly speak to Jack in dreams:

 

Bunnymund broke apart a family today, though it was not initiated by his own hands.

 

The eldest son, the one he had been holding mere moments ago who had reeked of sin and death, had ordered his brother killed out of greed for power.

 

He is dead now, Bunnymund reassures Jack, but had he lived he might have gone on to poison his father and claim the empire he had built all for his own, perhaps eventually corrupting it to a state of disrepair.

 

He enjoyed killing the boy, as he did with all his victims. He has had royalty before, but he never tires of it, knowing he can so easily taint the presumably prestigious and untouchable. The king will go to great pains and trouble now to find a suitable successor, and will do so with much fervor in order to truncate his grief at such betrayal and loss in so short a time.

 

It amuses him greatly to know that if Jack were really listening he would be out of his mind with refusal. That is the stupid thing about humans, Bunnymund thinks as he strokes Jack's pale, tearstained cheek silently. Their willingness to believe blindly in things, little regard for others but themselves and a brilliant capacity for denial and self-destruction.

 

This one, though.

 

Satisfaction crackles in Bunnymund’s throat, a pride he has never felt so strongly.

 

This one. _Jack_. Selfless enough to offer his life for an unknown. Not a particularly clever trait, but an admirable gesture.

 

Bunnymund must remember at some point to teach him greed.

 

In his sleep, Jack releases a short whimper of fear and shivers in his hold, subconsciously burying his face into the fur of Bunnymund’s arm. He smiles and cradles the boy carefully against him, a satisfied purr emanating from his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: [Houses- Tenderly](https://youtu.be/wcmbMw7W1EU)


	4. heaven rode my back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Around and above the rain taps down into the ground, his hair, and Bunnymund's fur and Jack wonders what it was that he ever did to deserve this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out this stunning [fan art](http://yukimono.tumblr.com/post/48999437315/caught-when-people-asked-me-to-draw-jackson) made by [YukiMono!](http://yukimono.tumblr.com) Thank you so much!

Jack wakes to the sound of chirping.

 

He opens his eyes to a leafy canopy and weak daylight, and for a moment Jack thinks he is dead. His eyes ache abhorrently from days of crying and restless sleep, a slight pressure building behind his eyes. He can feel all of himself, however, every finger and limb reflexively responding when he prompts himself to move, every sensation on his skin livid.

 

Sunlight!

 

It is the first time he has been aboveground since his capture. The realization shocks Jack, his eyes widening as he watches the speckles of light dance on his skin, illuminating the fine hairs on his arms.

 

Very much alive, then, but for how much longer?

 

A lone bird sings somewhere in the distance and the sound stills his fear, if only for just a second. If Bunnymund has killed him in his sleep, then that is one mercy he never would have expected to receive.

 

“You need to bathe, darling.”

 

Jack nearly jumps out of his skin. Bunnymund is almost draped over him, hot fur pressing close against Jack’s shoulder. His arms are tense: their bodies are pressed closely together, but he must be holding his weight up above Jack to avoid crushing him completely. It is only then that he realizes that it is raining, and that he is shivering and lying closer to the Pooka than he would have ever liked.

 

“Get off of me.” He mumbles, lifting a sleep-weak hand to tap the creature’s breast in a timid push.  

 

The Pooka chuckles a low _Hm_. Surprisingly, he obeys, strolling off a short distance with a meaningful look over his shoulder as if to say _am I not gracious?_

 

Cold and stiff-limbed, Jack struggles unsteadily to his feet and Bunnymund watches him carefully, long ears perking at the rustle of grass and leaves beneath his feet.

 

Straightened out, his toes sprawling in the grass and his spine uncurling from its sleepy huddle, he realizes this is the first clear look he has gotten at Bunnymund since he was taken down to the nest.

 

As he had noted before, the Pooka is larger than Jack would have ever guessed. Even lying as he is in the grass his bulk is impressionable, all sleek inky fur and powerful muscle. Strange markings embolden the fur of his shoulders, lighter than its overall inky hue. His claws look fearsome, but those teeth are doubly so: long and pointed, they glisten with saliva and a faint tinge of red, as though he has had blood recently smeared across them. He looks feral as fire, dangerous even in his relaxed posture. The unrelenting, magnetic pull of his stare surprises Jack- he takes care not to look too closely for fear of raising ire or more of that hungry interest that makes his skin crawl. But there is something great behind those irises, he can sense it. It seems to beckon him forward, whispers to him to look deeper-

 

Jack looks away quickly and wipes distractedly at the cold droplets of rain that trickle, almost like a ticklish finger, down his cheeks.

 

The sentience in those odd eyes is unmistakable.

 

Not that Jack ever doubted it before. The tales he has heard all describe the creature as humanoid, and though now he knows them to be true it is all the more unnerving to have so large an animal staring straight back at him and feeling subtle discomfort in knowing that it is just as intelligent as he, and far more besides.

 

How can it be that such a thing exists?

 

He looks down at his still-bare feet and is surprised to see that even though there are several inches of snow blanketing their surroundings, it cuts a wide berth around the pair of them. Beneath his feet, plainly visible, the grass is rapidly wilting, fading to an unhealthy shade of yellow, its texture stiff like hay. Uncertain of the death's source, Jack shifts his weight to his left foot, the toes of his right uncurling to test the dying ground. The others always treated him like he was such- like he was the yellowed part of them, the sickly branch they wanted clipped from the tree. They have gotten what they wanted now, he supposes. How did they react when they heard news of his disappearance, he wonders?

 

Bunnymund shifts slightly in the grass, and Jack has to wonder which of them is the cause of this phenomenon.

                                

“Go on then.” He says, waving a lazy paw at something behind Jack. Bored, lazy, he seems content to lie back in the grass and feel the rain slide through his fur, cooling his hot skin. But the tall lines of his ears are alert, his nose wriggling to scent the air. No, he is not idle.

 

Jack turns to look and lets out a small ‘oh’ of comprehension.

 

Wide and bubbling with clear water, the river nearby has not yet frozen over completely. Some areas are encrusted with ice, but the shallower parts are untouched. It is not unguarded: birch trees stand silently around the long line of water, the black eyes in their plain whorls keeping watch.

 

He digs his teeth into his lower lip in quiet dismay. He feels like a child awaiting orders and he hates that he has been reduced to a voiceless scrap of fear and bones already. Jack wants nothing more than to fight back and resist and scream, but those are all things he undoubtedly cannot do. It has already been made somewhat clear to him, what the Pooka expects of him if he is to survive and be taken home again.

 

Obedience, Bunnymund had mentioned before.

 

Obedience to what?

 

The Pooka notices Jack’s hesitance and bares his teeth in a quick snap of irritation. “Bathe.” He orders, staying put in the grass and apparently at ease with letting his latest catch walk freely about. “I’m sure you wouldn’t prefer the alternative.”

 

At this he grins, his teeth clicking as he makes a show of licking his lips. Something in Jack’s belly leaps; he turns away quickly.

 

In the three days that Bunnymund has held Jack captive, he has not once been allowed out of the nest. Jack had been desperately trying to hold back and pretend he had not felt those urges out of embarrassment, but when he had finally given in and relieved himself in a dark corner of the nest, the whole time he had shivered in disgust at feeling the Pooka’s unerring stare upon him.  He was not even able to take enjoyment out of the thought that he was staining the Pooka's home with his waste, as the Pooka did the same, and he never showed a hint of anger towards Jack for doing so. No smell or mess ever lingered- Jack rather suspected the ground itself took to the task of keeping the nest clean, for no mess ever seemed to linger and he never caught so much as a hint of Bunnymund performing any sort of cleanly task.

 

Certainly he is filthy. The dirt caked beneath his fingernails and no doubt dirtying his face do not bother him, nor the dried sweat. It is the creature’s touches he wishes to rid himself of, still feeling their ghosts lingering upon his face wherever a paw deemed fit to place itself or where the long tongue slithered.

  

But bathing means undressing completely, and the complete vulnerability it threatens him with is sickening.

 

Jack thinks of those paws and the things he used to dream

 

( _tight grip on his wrists, squeezing, claws clicking like shackles_ )

 

and shivers.

 

He takes a step forward and thinks of running. His eyes scan the opposite side of the river, as bleak as the one on which they stand. The snow is more slush at this point, weak in color and texture. Any attempt at escape would be unsuccessful on such a traitorous surface. If he had shoes, then perhaps…

 

A short, warning growl comes from behind him. The heaviness of that stare on his nape burns.

 

No, he would never survive the attempt.

 

He stares miserably at the gentle current. So that just leaves this, then.

 

Nervously, Jack grabs the edge of his blouse and pulls it half-heartedly over his head. These are his only clothes now, and that means he is going to have to take care of them. He cannot and will not walk around naked if he can help it. He suffered enough from that brute force even before he was taken- let there be no more of it. If he is going to make it back home alive then he will do so clean and washed, not dirty and stained in blood and dirt- not with any part of him bitten to pieces or crushed to gore.

 

( _because he will make it home. He will._ )

 

Cautiously, he looks toward Bunnymund, half expecting to be ordered to take off his pants as well, but the Pooka only stares back and nothing more is said. Perhaps it is Jack’s imagination but he looks mildly surprised; he must not have expected Jack to concede so easily. The most important thing is he does not seem to particularly care if he fully undresses or not, and that is just fine with Jack.

 

However, there is really nowhere he can keep his clothing from getting wet, as the light rain has not yet let up and his pants are already drenched. Sighing, he folds the blouse slowly and sets it down uselessly in the grass before edging closer towards the river’s bank. He has nothing to dry himself with, so it should not be so much a bother to wear wet clothing.

 

The water is frigid, but as much as he hates to admit it, the Pooka is right. He smells awful and he can feel the sweat and dirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin, the tears dried and itchy on his cheeks. He has been in waters just as cold before, Jack reminds himself sternly as he edges closer, standing on the bank's edge to acclimate his toes to the temperature first. But as he steps into the river, Jack fights to hold back the sharp gasp that tears up his throat at the iciness that greets him. The river seems to burble laughter as he splashes about, teeth chattering, knees shaking. Certainly he has been in waters just as cold, but never under such conditions- not only is he half undressed and submerged in death-like waters, he is kept under watch by a dangerous warden. From the corner of his eye (he cannot help looking) he can see the Pooka's lips have turned up to a smile. Jack is sure there is a laugh coming from him, but over the water's babbling there is nothing to be heard. Turning back to his task, he resists the urge to clamber from the river and fling what water clings to his arms at the creature. He must wash and exit the current before his toes freeze off.

 

Shivering, Jack scoops up some water and splashes it onto his shoulder and neck. The freezing shock numbs him, his entire body flinching upon impact. He scrubs harshly with the palm of his hand to get rid of the layers of dirt that have accumulated on his skin, letting the friction create a meager heat to warm himself. He works quickly, intent on washing up as fast as he can before the Pooka has any chance to join him in the water and make quick work of his prone form.

 

A brief dunk of his head, a gasp that sends a small flurry of bubbles bursting from his mouth; upside down in the water, he squeezes his eyes shut and thinks with fierce determination of things that are not cold. 

  

( _family home sun earth fire_

 

fur _?_ )

 

When he rears back up with a trembling breath he is shaking harder, biting down hard on his tongue to stop the clacking of his teeth. Exposed cruelly to the cold, his body feels stiff and unnatural. No doubt his tongue will swell from the fierceness of his own teeth.

 

He tries reasoning with himself as he scrubs at his arms: he only thought of fur because, admittedly, the Pooka _is_ warm,

 

( **_perfectly_** _warm- he has never felt such heat before, has never felt so blessedly snug and comfortable within any other embrace_ )

 

but that does not mean he would voluntarily go near him, not even if he were half-frozen to death. Looking past his dripping fringe, Jack risks a glance back at the grassy bank where Bunnymund lies.

 

Unaware of Jack’s gaze, the Pooka still lies on his side. His ears droop lazily as he licks busily at his paw, almost too intently, presumably cleaning it of dirt and old grass. He looks so appallingly unthreatening that Jack has to wonder at how odd the creature's swift mood changes are. But no, there, there it is- his eyes dart up now and then, scanning the trees around them, narrowing in on Jack and then flickering to another scene. His ears are not entirely folded down; he is listening, waiting. Does he expect an attack?

 

Jack wants so badly to run, but he does not want to be killed in his attempt.

 

Returning to the washing is simple. Even such a mundane task demands much of his attention, and he gives it willingly. Between thoughts of embarrassment and cold and escape, it is better to let himself become numb instead and do what he is told.

 

( _he doesn’t know where that last thought comes from but it does help quiet the raging calamity in his head that demands he flee_ )

 

He scrubs briefly down his side, scraping at the dirt lightly with his fingernails. His skin becomes as icy as the water, sickly pale in the lack of light except for the odd-shaped something on his hip- his eyes catch onto it suddenly, taking careful, surprised note of the large print as if he has never seen it before. A short breath escapes him as he lowers his fingers to his bare hip, touching fingertips fearfully to the mark, testing the ever-tender flesh.

 

How could he have forgotten?

 

Large, colored redder than his own skin like an aged burn, it winds fully over his hip and looks severe as ever, some parts of it rising unevenly like a healed-over scab.

 

It is remarkable that he has forgotten of it until now. And why should it have ever been important, at all? It is only ever a blemish, is it not, only a disfigurement in his skin, something that has been a part of him since always. But the thought does nothing to reassure Jack of the sudden trepidation sliding down his bared torso along with the water, chilling him. 

 

He was born with an immense paw print on his hip, so large it has always shamed him to be without clothing in front of others. If there were another to match it on his opposite side, both markings would encase his middle entirely. It is impossible to look at it now and not know where it must have come from- the certainty of it clicks simply in his mind. All this: the dreams, the mark, his capture. The stories his mother used to warn him to ignore with utmost dedication. None of it remotely capable of being doubted now that he knows their shared origin sits just yards away from him on a rain sodden bank.

 

Water drips coolly down from his hair onto his back and arms, trailing ticklishly down his skin. He does not react. His eyes remain glued to the blotch of darker pigment on his body. He still remembers the questions he had asked his mother so long ago: why was it so big? Why was it shaped so strangely? Was it an old injury? Where had he gotten it from?

 

Why did he have to hide it?

 

Now everything begins slowly clicking into place in his mind, and Jack is sure he has never felt so worthless in his life.

 

He was born branded with a paw print larger than any he has ever seen. Obvious on his pale frame, seared into his helpless flesh, it seems a disgraceful addition to his body, some odd stigma burned into him as an undeniable claim.

 

Who else’s could it be but the Pooka’s?

 

His mind is suddenly overflowing with terror and confusion at this and all Jack can think of is more questions.

 

If all this is truly connected, why did no one ever think to tell him? Why has this been kept a secret from him? Why did his mother lie to him every time he asked and did she even know that her story changed each time? Once, an unfortunate burn injury, another time it was an attack from an abnormally sized wolf. How could he have been so much a fool to believe her? And these dreams and his capture and now this marking- _what_ is he, really?

 

( _he is unaware of the tears brimming in his eyes or the way that, still nestled in the soft wet ground near the river’s bank, Bunnymund has turned to watch the epiphany unfold, missing nothing. Ears pricked high in the air, eyeing Jack intently and without blinking, he almost appears to be waiting for Jack to make a move, whether it is to continue bathing or give in to his conflicted emotions and cry_ )

 

How can any of this be?

 

He attempts willing himself to remain calm, but he never really was the pragmatic type to begin with.

 

Lightheaded and horrified, Jack makes a mad dash for the river bank.

 

His feet sink and crunch into the old snow, refusing to let the cold bite of it deter him. He is sure the noisy sloshing of water gave him away more than the sudden burst of fearful gasps from his throat did, but Jack cannot bring himself to care at a moment like this. All he knows is that he needs to get away. He needs to be far away from here, _home_ , safe with his mother- anyone that might protect him.

 

( a voice in his head: **_FOOL_** _._

_she gave you up to him,_

_she would not see you back if it meant facing her shame once more_ )

 

He runs on shaking legs beneath the steadily darkening sky, and the forest around him creaks and whistles by.

 

The only problem is that he has not done this much running since the day he was caught, and though that was not so long ago the strain of constant fear and his entrapment underground for so long- when he has all his life been used to running rampant through the hills and fields- has taken immediate effect on him. Still wet, his feet sting brutally, toes redder than the apples he had eaten the night before. For several moments his legs refuse to cooperate and Jack finds himself pleading in his mind, half-praying and half-begging that he might make it somewhere safe and that the Pooka will not ever touch him again.

 

But thunder answers his prayers, crackling ominously overhead: the rain angers rapidly to a small storm, pelting the slush of snow at his feet. Tree branches rattle at him, whipped to a frenzy by the gusts. If he had been thinking more clearly he would have realized then the futility of his perilous escape and surrendered himself in the rush of sleet and wind, but in his fright no rational thought stands chance of shining through.

 

There is no possible way to know where he is going. Jack has long ago lost track of where they are and how much distance he has put between himself and the Pooka. He runs determined to get as far away from his captor as possible, thinking little of the consequences. He is not going to be caught again, he is not going to be taken and secreted away underground and barred from his family and life as he knows it and

 

( _he will not go back to that nest, he would rather die, he must never set foot there again if he can help it_ )

 

Lightning strikes overhead in fluid tandem with the echoes of a thundering roar that rolls through the thickest clusters of trees and straight into his pulsing heart.

 

Was that thunder, or was that the Pooka sounding out his fury?

 

A hysterical whimper claws out of his throat. The trees all look the same, there are no landmarks, no possible aids to point him home--

 

He stops for the barest of seconds to breathe, twisting wildly in all directions searching out paths or glimpses of distant light. How his toes sting, reddening more and more the longer he stays still, darkening to a painful, numb purple! It is stupid of him, this walking around barefoot, he thinks suddenly with anger enough to berate himself in the quiet of his mind. Why did he ever think it was fun?

 

There is a far-off crunch of something brittle (leaves? branches?). He bolts instantly: small, spooked prey bolting before the beast crashes through the underbrush.

 

As he is struck and pinned to the ground (his shoulder catches the blunt edge of a large stone and he cries out, his legs nearly crushed beneath that bruising weight), he can do nothing but scream at the top of his aching lungs.

 

Above him, Bunnymund is dripping wet and his eyes are like hellfire, poisonous in their fiendish green fury. He leans in until Jack can feel the heat of his breath on his lips and roars, deafening and cruel. It is the worst thing Jack has ever heard: so terrifyingly unreal and unlike any sound any living creature should make and all he can see are those dangerous teeth and eyes glistening with malice.

 

“Please no!” Jack wails, and his efforts to get away only double when he feels heavy paws tugging sharply at his rain-sodden pants until there is a rip and he is left exposed to the cold air and those livid eyes. “No, no no _no_!”

 

Again darkness has fallen in the forest and the barest glints of light reflect off the Pooka’s eyes and teeth, forming some terrible daemonic silhouette that leaves Jack’s heart slamming against his ribcage.

 

“Did you really think you could get away from me?” Bunnymund roughly switches Jack over onto his belly with a rough shove of his paws. Jack, already winded from the tackle, gapes soundlessly, chin smashed into the mud, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the grass, his tears mixing into the rainwater. “Did you _honestly_ think you could escape the fastest predator your world has ever seen?”

 

“Monster!”

 

Jack twists beneath him but the Pooka has him thoroughly flattened- no amount of effort will budge him. He lashes out again with his fists, reaching to tear at fur and yelps in shock when something cordlike and strong wraps tight around his wrists and yanks them painfully back to the ground, bracing him.

 

More of these strange restraints snake forward to immobilize him and it takes Jack several dazed seconds to realize they’re tree roots come straight up from the ground. They loop around his limbs as Bunnymund lifts his hips up, locking him firmly into place on his elbows and knees. The position is painful, humiliating, but every attempt he makes to fight free or cover his extremities is easily subdued by the oddity of his restraints.

 

His heart stops and starts and shudders and races to resume its natural beat.

 

He feels Bunnymund shift on top of him until he has fully curled himself over Jack, paws on his hips still and large nose tucked behind Jack’s ear.

 

“I was going to let you off easy,” He hisses. His teeth catch on the shell of Jack’s ear, the graze far too blatantly delicate- he hungers for violence. “for interrupting my kill yesterday. I was going to rough you up a little and let you off with a warning. But look at you, acting up already. I’m disappointed, _Jack_.”

 

It is by no means an uncommon nickname, but Jack still cannot deny the flash of paranoia he feels at the use of it. How much else does the beast know of his preferences?

 

“I-that’s not my name-“ He stammers, squirming uneasily. “Please, you’re crushing me—“

 

Bunnymund laughs, the sound almost gleeful. He is dangerous as the storm above them and he has his prey caged in perfectly now, subject to his every filthy whim. This excites and pleases him, makes the shadows in his eyes leap and lessen, thriving to ruin and taste. “You’ve already angered me enough. I’d advise you to cease your lying.”

 

He grabs Jack by the hips-

 

( _one finger strays close to Jack’s marking and the resulting jolt is so severe Jack cries out, entirely breathless now, his face white-_ )

 

and pulls him backwards until his ass is pressed flat against Bunnymund’s groin. Stunned, Jack lets out a weak cry of horror; the enormity of what presses back against him makes his stomach cramp in terror, the whites of his eyes dwarfing his watery irises.

 

Great paws roam the swell of Jack’s exposed buttocks- there is a barely-felt restraint to the touches that confuses Jack, unsure if he wants to weep in relief or fear. The groping is vicious: Bunnymund quickly grows enraptured with the act, splaying his fingers to gather firm flesh in his palms, squeezing tight with continuous purrs of approval to the sounds of Jack’s tortured whimpers.

 

Just as he dreamt for years on end, his pleas go unheeded.

 

The Pooka’s fur feels strange, weighted down from the heavy rain: slick and thinned down to clumps, he can now better feel the large muscle and heated skin that lies beneath it. One of those dreadful fingers pushes into Jack’s mouth, toying with his tongue, rubbing the pad along the flat muscle, prompting Jack to suck. He refuses to obey: in warning, or perhaps punishment, Bunnymund moves against him.

 

His cock, which had previously lain stiff and weighty against the cleft of Jack’s ass, slides easily against rain-wet skin, the heat of him scorching. The way those hips snap against him makes Jack rock forward within his restraints, the force of the thrust bending his back painfully.

 

Again, it is just like he is reliving his dreams all over again and Jack is beginning to wish he had never been born at all. Memories of those dreams jump eagerly back into his mind and the hatred he feels towards himself thickens, a deadly clot in his lungs. How can he have dreamt of things like this before, and enjoyed them?

 

Why is this happening to him?

 

Plastered all against his spine, compressing him on all sides, he feels fur and muscle shift and coil as Bunnymund leans closer, whispering into his shoulder.

 

“I feel familiar, don’t I.”

 

Jack swallows back a sob, his throat feeling raw. His eyes sting, his tears only worsening the matter, forcing him to blink rapidly in attempt to clear his vision, the salt of his pain seeping into the cracks on his lips. More of those tree roots curl lazily out of the earth below him, looping several times round his neck and keeping him chained to the ground.

 

Like a slave, like a dog, like a thing owned and heavily guarded.

 

“You’ve felt me before. Every night.”

 

Jack’s vision swims. He is unsure if it is because of his tears or the steady, cruel motions of Bunnymund humping against him, each thrust knocking tears from his cheeks to splatter into the rain-flooded grass below them.

 

A sigh blisters across Jack’s flesh. He no longer has the energy to shudder or flinch away. The roots keeping him in place curl the slightest bit tighter. “I always did like it when you cried. Such lovely eyes He gave you.”

 

Jack can do nothing now but sob and squeeze his eyes shut against the rhythmic thrusting that rocks his body forward and then back, the mud and grass squelching beneath his knees. Unbothered by his weeping, Bunnymund continues the motions, grinding his hips in slow circles, clutching his prey close so that no friction is lost between them. He never quite pushes inside, for which Jack is grateful, saving him the brutal intrusion, but he lets his fingers wander, cupping Jack’s flesh, readjusting his enormous length so that it lies wedged between pert buttocks, the silken rub of his engorged shaft across the sensitive outer rim of Jack’s hole agonizing in a way that makes him want to die of shame and repulsion. He pauses only once to readjust Jack’s bindings- the roots part ways for him like docile snakes, shifting to their better positions without a single word spoken of instruction by the Pooka. They squeeze together his legs, keeping his hips level with Bunnymund’s; the long growl of admiration becomes a groan of filthy satisfaction as he repositions himself, sliding his cock between the tight clamp of Jack’s forced-together thighs.

 

 “This will be your punishment for now, I think.” He murmurs as he resumes his regular thrusting. His claws pierce through the skin on Jack’s hips now, tugging forth tired little yelps of pain. Humiliated tears stream down pale cheeks as Jack tugs pathetically at the sturdy roots, all strength sapped from his form, his efforts dwindling.

 

Sharp teeth latch delicately around the back of his neck: Jack whimpers in fright and goes absolutely still, fearful of those fangs ripping further into his skin, unable to envision anything but. He closes his mind off to everything that is happening to him and focuses on the ground below, fastidiously observing the grass and the array of puddles pooling into the wet earth, counting with dedication each raindrop that ripples its surface. Anything to keep his mind off the profanity of those noises in his ear, the lewd, slick slide of Bunnymund between his thighs, the fingers pulling and twisting at his nipples until they ache in a way Jack remembers far too well.

 

Around and above the rain taps down into the ground, his hair, and Bunnymund’s fur and Jack wonders what it was that he ever did to deserve this.

 

Bunnymund rolls his hips forward again and again in brutish, sharp jerks, the engorged flesh of his cock rubbing frantically against soaked flesh until he releases with a loud, violent snarl, the action causing his teeth to sink further into Jack’s neck, this time causing real pain. It is a quick bite: he pulls away rapidly, leaving Jack to collapse on himself awkwardly due to the stiff restraints, the gnarled bark chafing his skin. The filth of his surroundings do not register to him, for Bunnymund is on him again in an instant and wet fur and thick muscle are all he knows of the world, sharp teeth once again clenching into Jack’s abused throat. Another series of thrusts follow, this time haphazard grinding against Jack’s hip: the snap of tension strings Bunnymund tight like a wire, the rolling wave of orgasm rippling through him every bit palpable against Jack’s body. He grunts, and the spray of semen seems to never end. It cakes across Jack’s front in wild spurts, glazing into Bunnymund’s fur, searing hot and thick.

 

Jack’s face burns hot in mortification, prickling in disgust.

 

He hears Bunnymund snarl out something under his breath and then those teeth are gone off his neck and the roots holding him move, shifting and tugging him onto his side so that his left hip lies in a mix of still-hot semen and rainwater in the grass. Limp and shocked into complete silence, he does not react when the roots go sliding back into the wet earth. He is too aghast to move.

 

Jack cannot do anything to cover or defend himself. His eyes are dull with lack of comprehension: he can still feel the jarring sensation of being thrown to the ground, the shameful, wet slide of that _thing_ between his thighs.

 

Sated, the Pooka sits back and licks his teeth, which Jack is faintly surprised to see are dripping at the tips with his own blood. Noticing that Jack is aware of this, Bunnymund smiles cruelly at him, and the effect is unnerving, all long fanged teeth amidst black fur tinted with pinkish red. He remains still for a moment and shares Jack's silence, calmly observing the young boy at his feet, eyes hungrily roving his stained figure as if he has not only just moments ago taken his pleasure.

 

“I’d meant for the first time to be in the nest.” He explains as he looks down at his prey. He smoothes a curious paw down the flesh of Jack's thighs to wipe away the excess semen, sluicing his fingers indulgently through the viscous mess. “Outside of your dreams, I mean. It’s a senseless crime taking such beauty in all this muck. Do your best not to tempt me so.”

 

Jack does not make a sound. He lets his gaze unfocus into the night, his eyes screwing shut to avoid looking at the Pooka as he bends low again, reaching for him.

 

He thinks of his white blouse lying forgotten by the river, and how many times his mother had to sew on the fourth button because its threads so often came loose. He thinks of what he now knows to be her lies and wonders what else has been kept from him all this time.

 

Bunnymund pulls him up into that suffocating hold again and taps his foot, calling a tunnel up before them both.

 

“I’ll find us somewhere warmer to bathe this time.” He says. Jack has never hated anyone more in his entire life.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: [Houses- A Quiet Darkness](https://youtu.be/BHsZ6I6yuDo)


	5. asleep in the fold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I never asked for any of this." Jack sobs helplessly, and Bunnymund smiles, bending to lick at his marking.
> 
> "Sweetheart," He says, "Who said you had any voice in the matter?"

( Inside the moldy chapel the priest lectures his audience, warning them against sin, temptation, and idleness. A good man, he says, provides for his family. A good wife is active in the church and raises the children with all her love and dedication.

 

The villagers sit at attention, holding tattered hymn books and crowding the old pews, eyes affixed to the man of faith before them. They listen because he is a vessel through which God speaks to them, they obey because their fear tells them to.

 

Jack is not listening.

 

Clutching his coat in his hands, he stares out the window, his eyes red and his lips dry; signs of unrest. His head nods an irregular rhythm, eyes sliding shut for brief, precious seconds before flying open in alarm, neck straightening right up and gaze flying to his mother, then the priest, to make sure that he has not been caught. Luckily, his mother does not notice, or she would reprimand him for his wandering mind as she always does, startle him back to proper focus with a cutting glance and clearance of her throat. But she is too busy staring ahead, devoutly mouthing words of prayer under her breath, clutching her hymn book in one hand with strained white knuckles. Between them, Jack's sister sits quietly, her legs swinging distractedly under the pew to no particular beat, her attention held by the rays of sun that edge lazily through the dirty windows.

 

He is glad for their distractions. He does not think he could live with himself if they watched him as he is now, paranoid and full of sin.

 

Last night, Jack dreamt of unholy things.

 

_Lying on his stomach, he squirmed and clawed restlessly at the ground as a tongue worked over his body, dipping into the groves behind his knees, his ears. Pinned by the heavy paws on his shoulders, no matter how much he pleaded and struggled he could not break free; he kicked his legs and begged until his throat went sore, but it did him no good. Languid, long, coating him in saliva, the tongue slipped between his buttocks, one paw joining it there to splay him open at the core, allowing a deeper probe._

_He whimpered, coiling into himself as much as he could, the roiling pleasure of every lick too much for him to bear. There was no way to stop himself bucking his hips upwards into the caresses, the helpless gasps emitting from his throat._

_One paw lifted off his shoulder and found his hand. It outsized both his hands combined but that hardly mattered; Jack grasped him with a fevered whine, grateful for the anchoring connection, fingers slotting into their designated places between the creature's own._

 

Jack comes back to his senses with an agitated shout.

 

He opens his bleary eyes quickly, his pulse wild. He slept so little the night before- even in the thickest, deepest sleep those paws, that tongue find him there, refusing to go unsated. For all that he sleeps early he never feels as rested as a full eight hours should allow, though he knows now he is an utter fool for expecting such when all he knows now of night and rest is the vicious, unrelenting ravaging of his own body.

 

He frowns, still so vividly gripped by the memory that the moment’s happenings do not immediately register even as all faces turn to eye him.

 

Silence. Why is it quiet?

 

His vision clears through, last night’s nightmare giving way to the stunning clarity of such disapproving faces that Jack’s cheeks burn. Oh, _god_ , he’s interrupted the sermon.

 

Appalled, the whole congregation stares at him, the children turning listlessly in their seats to give Jack their baldly excited looks. Their guardians are not as kind with their gazes: some are curious, almost pitying where others are hard and flinted, annoyed at his nerve. His outburst has even brought the preacher to a befuddled pause; he can feel the priest's eyes on him now, an alarmed look that speaks of things he knows and fears. He is a servant of God, Jack thinks in building dismay, he knows of sin and wrong. Does he know what Jack was thinking just now, can he see it behind his eyelids? Can they all see it, is this why a hushed whisper rattles through the crowded pews and more heads turn to look at him, mouths growing grim?

 

Startled and upset, Jack scrambles to his feet. The bulk of his coat drops haplessly to the floor; he barely notices. His mother hisses something to him then and his sister has turned her eyes to him with dozens of unspoken inquiries, but Jack cannot stay. He does not want to be called on after the sermon to be questioned again, he does not want to brave today’s freshest round of whispers and the children running up to him to ask why he shouted. It is irreverent, it is rude, but he must leave now or cause further damage as the day wears on. Cheeks hot with self-hatred, Jack mumbles an apology to his mother and leaves the chapel, but not before noticing the serious glance the priest and his mother share.

 

Outside the air is brisk, free of the stuffy chapel's heat. It stings at his warm cheeks, sharp taps of cold morning fingers on the apples of his cheeks, but he does not mind it, he never does. Savoring the cool wind and the dewy grass at his ankles, Jack runs the entire way to his cabin, free for now of more speculative, distrustful stares. No one is outside to bother him, and he is glad for that, glad they all cram themselves into the tiny chapel to listen to the priest ramble. That way no one can stop and question him on why he is leaving in such a hurry. There is a lie of stomach illness knitting itself together on his tongue in the off chance that he is spotted, but the village on Sundays is barren and still. There is no need to fear.

 

He flies up the stone steps without a care to mind the slippery frost caking its surface. Today he is not barefoot, a necessity of proper dress for churchgoing, but as soon as Jack has entered the threshold he is kicking and yanking the annoying things off his feet, slamming the cabin's door shut with his shoulder. Hastily, he shuts himself in his room, untying his cloak and flinging it hatefully to the side as he slips, shivering but not from the cold, into his bed to lie on his belly beneath the woven sheets. 

 

Minutes pass. He counts each second with dedication, squeezing his eyes shut, thanking the stars that at least his body did not to react to the heated churn of his blood until he arrived home.

 

As he regulates his breathing and warms his fingers, Jack allows himself the usual shred of hope that ignoring it, taking his time and simply not thinking of it will make his erection go away. Unfortunately, this is never the case: his mind roils rebelliously with the memory of those paws and that tongue, rekindling the fire in his groin until his body cramps painfully with the need of it, hips twitching as he attempts to cage his knees by his chest and hide his hardness.

 

It is wrong, he reminds himself in his waning determination. It is wrong to want and dream of this, even if it all comes unbidden and fierce to his mind as an intrusive thought. Jack does not know why an animal is fucking him in his dreams, or why he likes it, but _god_ , if it does not make for such temporary bliss…

 

As he rolls his hips and bucks needily into his soft sheets, he cries, too ashamed to use his hands but too desperate to not act on the terrifying lust that clouds his mind.

 

Later, when the sermon is over and his mother and sister enter his room noisily and without warning, Jack is glad he hastened to clean himself immediately afterwards, for he is sure his mother's gaze sharpens as she steps in, her face as illegible as ever. He is sure she can see what he has done, that she can smell his desperation on his hands on his sheets and thinks less of him for it, thinks him truly lost to depravity.

 

“Jack!” His sister calls, pulling off her coat and bouncing to him where he sits, unaware of what is happening. Her long brown hair swings forward and drapes over her shoulders, round cherub cheeks glowing happily, the spitting image of her mother many years ago. Unaware of the impending dispute between her eldest relations, she babbles in her excitement, reaching into the pocket sewn to her dress to hand Jack a small handful of butterscotch squares. “You missed it, Abigail's mom finally gave out those candies she made. She said she wasn't sure she'd made enough but I got you some anyway-”

 

She seems not to notice the weakness of his smile. The candies are wrapped neatly in wax paper, the fish-tail ends twisted artfully. Even though he washed his hands and bathed after his frantic masturbation, Jack feels dirty beneath her innocent, unwitting gaze, struck by the guilty urge to shirk her attention. It takes all of his might to stay and listen to her as she removes her scarf, the chewy smack of candy between stubborn baby teeth audible as she gossips and giggles about what happened today in the children’s class. He is in the midst of thanking her for the candies when their mother strides into the room, her eyes dark.

 

“Jackson.”

 

The youths freeze, chatter gone at once. Jack’s teeth dig into the inside of his lip.

 

Michaela, unwise to the nature of her mother’s grave countenance and her brother’s frozen breath, hops to her feet. “Mama, did you want some candy too?”

 

His mother interrupts, the lines beneath her eyes creasing momentarily as she pulls her mouth into a practiced, calmer smile. “Not now darling, thank you. Let us be for the moment, I must speak with your brother.”

 

She does not even give the girl a chance to obey and slip from the room dutifully before turning her eyes to Jack, the hardness in them quavering.

 

“What in god’s name is the matter with you? Have you no explanation for that senseless outburst?”

 

He would rather die than tell.

 

Jack doesn’t even dare shake his head. His eyes are watering already, threatening to spill over. Any movement could make a few stray droplets a torrent. He simply stares at his hands, gnawing his lip in agitation.

 

“Have you not had enough of making a mess of my nerves, of embarrassing your family? When will you learn?” His mother snatches her handkerchief from her pocket, pressing the makeshift sachet to her cheek near her nose. It must be bad if she is already feeling faint enough for the smelling salts. As if Jack didn’t already feel enough shame! “First making a fool out of yourself yesterday at the market-”

 

_The problem with the market was that it was at the far end of the village's settlement, where the first cabins had been set up. The trees here were just as tall and thick as anywhere else, but over the years they seemed to have tried overtaking the area, sprouting carelessly and dangerously close to the stands of fruits and meats. Incidentally, this made the area perfect for the market, as the trees' height offered the perfect shade for sellers' crops and prospective buyers. The same happy outcome could not be had for Jack, as the looming trees- so thickly grown together they looked knotted- made the forest look so dense and uninviting that he shivered every time he looked._

 

_( this, however, did not once stop him from going running into them for a good day of exploration )_

 

_The day before, Jack had strayed a little too close to the awning of trees that surrounded the market, and instead of picking out ears of corn and tomatoes as his mother had requested of him, he had found himself edging steadily into the trees, eyes narrowed, ears attuned to the sounds within the darkness before him, completely unaware of the world around him and the numerous other market-goers watching him in wary silence._

_He hadn’t meant for…whatever that had been. Contrary to what others thought of him, Jack never went actively seeking trouble. It simply always managed to find him. How could he have known that something so mundane as running an errand would find him suddenly blank of mind, all thought of completing his set task curiously forgotten? That in the midst of comparing prices he would find himself entranced by the uneven ground at his feet, the trodden dirt so cool and crumbly between his toes, bidding him to follow the knots of root broken above ground like a child tottering along a path? And when he came to the trees, his basket dropping to his feet, fingers slack, what then?_

_There had been no fear. No awareness of the bustling marketgoers behind him, more and more of them halting to watch as he crept further away from their number, toward the swell of forest. Only a beautiful, empty-minded serenity he has never felt anywhere else, an ache to complete…something._

_He'd caught odd flickers of motion inside, swift blurs too dark and fast to be fully tracked. At times it even seemed to pause, peering at him patiently. So taken was he by the need to locate the questionable figure that he did not notice the way villagers began to move away from the scene, as though fearful something would come bursting with its jaws wide enough to swallow them all whole._

_If one new to the area had been standing to the side and observing these events as they unfolded, they would have come to the conclusion that these onlookers, holding their baskets and children and coins, all knew something the boy did not, and that they were actively waiting on something to happen._

_Someone went hurrying to alert the priest._

_To the great relief of Jack's audience, there was nothing ominous lying in wait that day. As they all watched, Jack crept closer and closer still to the forest's edge, moving well past the outer crop of vegetation-_

_and then someone shouted, perhaps a cry of his name or an insult, and he jumped, the glaze draining from his eyes, and shook himself as if waking from a trance. Appearing to realize what he had been doing, he turned his back to the trees and retreated quickly to the market, shaken and pale but smiling to all that approached him as though he had merely seen an old friend beckoning from within._

_People talked, as they always did. It was nothing new, and he was skilled at playing deaf._

_Jack heard all and said nothing, too shaken by the pull he had felt to care. What he had seen there that day in the market was much like the scenes he saw in his dreams, the rare few where he was not underground, but instead out in the woods alone and afraid as something drew closer and closer to him and all he could think was that one word-_

 

**here  .**

 

“-and your little accident with the Redinns girl-”

 

_Weeks ago. Out in the sunlit woods with his friends, he had been strolling by the pond with a forced carelessness, silent as the others laughed and shrieked. Recently his dreams had begun to darken, and they had taken an immediate toll. The weight of them bore down on his mind and shoulders: he found it harder to laugh and smile now when he was so haunted by them, when his every morning was rent with the oppressive feel of fur and teeth, lips sucking hard at his neck and hips raking across his own, stealing away his every sense of freedom. He had been so preoccupied with his feigned carelessness that he had not thought much of why Diana Reddins had pulled on his arm gently and asked him to stay behind for a bit as the others continued on._

_How could he have known she would confess her feelings for him?_

_Jack had never been in love before. The most he had ever felt were those fleeting crushes and attractions that, as a gangly and insecure young man, he had never acted on out of fear. She spoke heartfelt to him but he heard none of it,, her cheeks tinted fiercely red and eyes lowered shyly, He was acutely aware of a growing pressure in his chest that made his rabbit heart tremble and beat against the cage of his ribs. His mind suddenly began to burn with hate and disgust, but at what, at whom, from where had this anxiety originated? And as Diana had mistaken his horrified silence as invitation to lean in and try to kiss him, he had felt that pressure burst and tighten over his lungs like a vice; he did not want this, he did not want her, he could not be seen with her and if **he**  saw he would be furious and oh god **he** was most likely watching right now and Jack was going to be punished for this-_

_Acting on instinct, Jack had done what seemed logical at the time. He had shoved Diana away before she got too close, using as much force as he could and watching helplessly as she went stumbling back in confusion and hurt, his temples suddenly cold and dripping with sweat. “Get away from me!” He had shouted, unsure of why he was afraid of someone seeing, and who exactly that someone was._

_And oh, how angry they had all been at him: Diana and her parents, his mother, his friends who had seen the whole interaction and rounded on him instantly, demanding to know what had happened and why he had pushed her. How could he have explained his nervousness at her words without seeming a fool, a coward? Jack had never been able to fully explain himself, and how could he even have done it when all seemed so predetermined to fault him for something he did not know of? How could he have told them all it felt wrong, that he was not supposed to and that the trees always felt so watchful around him, like they had eyes hidden somewhere in the rough whorls of bark that never once left his figure?_

 

“-and now this? And that's only just this month! What's gotten into you, Jack?”

 

She did not know it then, but Jack's mother had faced him with an ultimatum then, and it had stuck with him since that day, poking at his mind whenever he seemed to have found a moment's peace and setting it back into torment.  He could tell his mother of what had 'gotten into him,' (the irony in that made him cringe inwardly) or he could explain away his behavior with an apology and lazy excuses of bad behavior.

 

For a moment he allowed himself to consider. Could he do it? Could Jack finally allow himself to crumble and beg help and forgiveness as he confessed to the horrors his mind produces in the night, the urges that leave him weeping and gnashing his teeth if he does not comply? It seemed so simple in his mind's eye, but Jack is no fool, he knows what would come of revealing such things.

 

Confused at the accusations, Jack's sister looked between mother and sibling, sensing the strife in the room and wondering at how little she knows. She is aware of enough to know that this all has something to do with the way people look at her brother, like they will be in trouble if they come too close, but she knows that the answers she is given whenever she voices her concerns are heavily bound in sweet lies, because who in this world trusts truth to children? Not everyone is as good as Philipe in this regard, but she knows that on the topic of her brother even he looks at her in that sad way and says little to nothing at all.

 

“What's going on?” She asked. Noting that her brother had not yet sampled the candies she put into his palm, she put her little palm over his and pushed his hand back towards him, gesturing for him to try one. It would break the tension at least, she thought to herself, but Jack only looked down at them sadly, a faint smile on the edge of his mouth as if he remembered being a glutton for the things but could not bring himself to try one.

 

It was then that Jack knew they could never know the truth. He was meant to protect his sister, not frighten her with stories of the dark underground that trapped him in his sleep. He would die before he let his own horrors overwhelm and frighten her.

 

“Nothing.” Jack had said, smoothing his face into a comforting smile for their benefit, and curling his fingers over the sticky candies. He would dispose of them later. He had been unable to consume anything so sugary since the day he'd woken with the buttery taste on his lips and the ghostly trace of a finger down his lips, as if he had been fed sweets in the night. “Nothing's wrong.”

 

I I I I I I

 

So he is a plaything, and he is a puppet.

 

Underground, Jack sobs out what feels like the contents of his very soul, wincing when a very real, very physical pain streaks through his chest. It feels like it will never stop, this grief he feels. He has been lied to and been kept oblivious for so long, and for what? What purpose could he possibly have here, tethered to this creature by some unknown bond they apparently share? Why had no one ever deemed it necessary to tell him?

 

If Bunnymund's lunatic murmurings are right, then he was born and bred to be this creature’s sole possession. They (and who is there to directly blame? How many played a part?) had kept him oblivious, unable to question or figure things out and left him to his nightmares and insecurities until they had found use for him, probably laughing at his plight all the while. They might as well have trussed him up in a bow and thrust him right into the Pooka's greedy paws: an offering, a gift, but certainly not a sacrifice.

 

Do they miss him? Have they gone looking for him? Was his own mother a part of this ploy, had she feigned all her love?

 

 _No,_ the traitorous voice in jack's mind whispers _. No, they don't miss you. They wouldn't look for you._

 

_Yes, she knew all along._

 

After his attempted escape, it rains outside for a full week.

 

He knows how much time has passed because Bunnymund keeps him informed of it. In and out of the nest he goes every day, sometimes returning with dirty claws and hot blood on his fur, other times returning in surprising cleanliness, carrying an odd satchel filled with food for Jack. He steals it all from the villages, he tells Jack as he tosses the worn thing to his feet and apples and bags of nuts and cheeses and loaves of bread spill out. Cool, clear water and fresh milk comes in skins and flasks. Maybe if he behaves, he'll bring him something nicer.

 

He knows it is raining because the nest acquires a dank, dewy smell, and because of the way the air becomes fraught with the stench of the earth's iron and wet animal. The walls become heavy and dark with rainwater, so sodden that if Jack touches the right place his hand sinks an inch into the muddy earth. The air cools: Jack shivers in his sleep, cold and dirty and still terribly under-dressed. He is disgustingly dirty now, again in need of a bath.

 

Jack spends that week and the next crying and sleeping. Dazed in his confusion, he slips in and out of dreams, his hands clammy and his temple feverish from the strain of his trauma. Bunnymund notices, and curls tight around him when he sleeps, keeping the chill away from his body and stroking idly over his spine as if to offer some comfort for what is largely his fault. Oddly, the Pooka seems content to indulge Jack in his tragic lethargy; he remains silent and only interacts with him when he wants Jack to eat or relieve himself, prodding him into basic survival functions as a guardian might: _eat, Jack. Rest, now, you’ll have wept yourself to blindness and dry eyes._ Jack lacks the strength or will to fight. He obeys.

 

It seems his imprisonment here will never end, and Jack finds that he has begun to feel like he has been here far longer than a few weeks. Time passes slowly, and in his attempts at sleep he is plagued by the memory of his mother's lies, the way she had smiled at him and smoothed a trembling hand over his mark.

 

_( she had told him he was only imagining its resemblance to a pawprint. she had told him there was nothing to worry over, only that he must keep it covered at all times for it was indecent to show so much skin. and she had quickly yanked her fingers away when they accidentally strayed too close to the deeper grooves they left in jack's hip, her face drawn and ashen, leaving Jack more puzzled than ever )_

 

He does not know what to do. He does not know what to say.

 

Part of him thinks he wants to die, but Jack knows that is not true. Death would mean an end to his captivity, but it would also mean never seeing his sister again, or his mother, or feeling frost-flecked grass between his toes or the sun on his face or the splendid suck of balmy summer air into his lungs.

 

Shock takes hold of him instead. He is afraid of where he is and whom he is with, and what scares him more is the thought of returning to his village. If they knew where he had been, would they accept him and keep him safe, or would they harden their hearts and send him right back?

 

Tonight, Bunnymund returns to the nest free of blood. With all his lordly silence it is most often the stench of blood that announces his return, but tonight, as he does when he is clean, he smells of grass. Finding Jack still curled up in the ground where he left him, the Pooka circles once around him and growls softly into his ear by way of greeting as he lowers himself to lie close, cloaking Jack in the warmth of his body. His pelt is silken, marvelously thick, the firm press of muscle hidden beneath a solid weight that manages not to crush. It is near every night that he does this: it feels as though Jack has been submerged in the sweetest of heats the world has ever known, and his fingers tremble with the sensation of it, for he has never felt so afraid nor so protected in his life.

 

“Are you better tonight, or do you still weep?” Bunnymund murmurs, nosing his way down Jack's cheek. His snuffling tickles, causing Jack to twitch in reaction here and there. “Forgive me for saying so, little one, but I rather like this change of pace. If you'd been this subdued right from the start we'd have gotten along from the start. Or is this all out of fright?”

 

Jack closes his eyes. Bunnymund strokes thoughtfully at his hair, rubbing the strands that pass between his fingers. He told Jack once before how much he adores the simple, honest shade of brown, the way it reddens in the sunlight and goes black in the night. His fascination with it is chilling, but Jack cannot deny the plain comfort of fingers against his scalp, combing through the thick of his hair with soothing ease. He can no longer sleep: he has spent much of the day within its grasp, but now there is nothing to dream when he is here in the real thing, now, no rest to be gained from forcing his eyes shut and willing the time to pass. For now he is stuck in the present, listening as Bunnymund murmurs to him his thoughts.

 

Bunnymund takes note of Jack’s fluttering eyelids, applying a careful pressure to his caresses, hair ruffling whisper-quiet, Jack’s silence predictable.

 

“Tell me why you reek of purity.” He says, and Jack tries not to flinch at the sound of his voice so close to his own lips. He stares at the dark ceiling of the nest, the blue glow from those odd flowers clotting the walls in ivy spreads and tangled clumps flickering in and out of focus. “Tell me why I smell rot and malice so rampant in your village and you come off clean as a baptized brat. Did they go against me and condemn you to their waters anyway?”

 

Jack tries not to react, but the way his shoulders go stiff in response gives him away. Bunnymund smiles slowly, noticing Jack's struggle to keep his gaze anywhere but on him. “Oh, but you never were baptized, were you?”

 

“What does it matter to you?” Jack blurts angrily. His throat feels like old splintered wood, cracking with strain underneath the weight of his words.

 

“Ah, is that all it takes to get you to speak again?” Bunnymund strokes his paw up along Jack’s cheek, dragging his furry fingers through his hair once again, soft pretty petting that makes Jack feel like a prized lapdog, the perfectly groomed kinds he has seen some of the wealthier ladies in the village with. He pushes the brown tufts back from Jack’s temple and watches them slowly slide back into their usual stance on his scalp, forever mussed as if he were perpetually winding his hands through it, stumbling through windy blurred afternoons or twining messily in his sheets. “I had no idea you cared so much about the faith.”

 

Jack’s jaw hurts from clenching. “I don’t.”

 

“Mm.” A finger traces the curve of Jack’s lower lip. There is no claw to threaten, but Jack holds his breath all the same. “Forget that for now, Jack. This is the most we’ve spoken in weeks, we should be taking advantage of it. I know you have questions.”

 

Jack hadn’t expected this. He frowns, fighting instinct to push away the paw at his mouth, knuckles gliding against his jaw. The first, most prominent, springs to his tongue without hesitation, dying to know.

 

“It’s your print on my hip, isn’t it?”

 

He is answered with a smile: sly, pleased.

 

There is no better validation than that, Jack supposes, his lips pressing together to bite back bile.

 

 _Connected, all of it connected_. How could he have been so blind? “Then you never meant to return me home. You only wanted me to consent. But why? Why trick me into a deal when you could have just subdued any struggle and taken me?”

 

Bunnymund hums softly. “I nearly did. But consider this, Jack: you dreamt of me for years. You felt my presence for far, far longer. Were you not curious to speak with me, to feel me in the waking world?”

 

Jack sucks in a breath.

 

_Yes._

 

God only knows the extent of his curiosity. The sheer longing he felt to understand, to fully grasp what he could never touch in return. How terribly he hungered for any scrap of understanding all those days.

 

The Pooka eyes him knowingly, gleaning his answer just as Jack did from his expression. “It was the same for me. Do you think I’ve not dreamt of you? Felt you haunt me in return?”

 

His candor stuns Jack. He had been expecting cryptic replies, teases and malicious taunts, mockery of his lack of knowledge. Newer, more urgent questions burst from the fresh information, all the more puzzling.  “I don’t understand- do you mean to say I appeared in your dreams as you did in mine? How is it that we knew of each other?”

 

The green eyes age in an unsettling flash Jack only glimpses for the briefest second, the lively green drying to something mossy and pained. That emotion in those eyes is too human, too defeated to be part of the arrogant creature Jack has become accustomed to. Taken aback, he peers closer, but it is gone in an instant and then Bunnymund is looking away from him, brushing his tongue across a scrape of dirt on Jack’s shoulder. “You’ve appeared to me longer than you have been alive.”

 

He does not answer the second question. Jack aches to continue, the restlessness of his magnified bewilderment aflame on his tongue but the silence that falls between them is ominous, not something he would wish to cross alone. Irritation scratches needle-like on his spine, but he lets it be, tormented already by the recent revelations, struggling to ignore the wet draw of Bunnymund’s tongue licking him clean where Jack’s shirt (brought to him weeks ago to replace the one abandoned at the riverside, too large in size but warm, at the least) has slid down to reveal dirty skin.

 

“Poor pretty pet.” Bunnymund sighs, lamenting a loss Jack is not sure he quite understands just yet. He squirms as Bunnymund shifts to curl tighter around him, resting his chin atop Jack’s head, cradling him close in massive arms. “Alone all your life and you never even knew it. So wrapped up in their lies you never heard me calling.”

 

It is impossible not to shiver when Bunnymund speaks like this. Simple little endearments that do nothing to conceal the raw, possessive claim underlying them. “Stop it.” Jack snaps tiredly. He is toeing a line, he knows, but there is little real bite to his words. All his grieving has exhausted him to resentful compliance. “I don’t… I’m not your pet.”

 

“No, you’re right.” Bunnymund agrees indulgently. His paw slides up Jack’s hip, digging fingers beneath the waistband of his pants before Jack can protest to fit itself over the marking, slotting perfectly into the curious groove it makes into Jack’s flesh.

 

_( he is not sure what this feeling is, this odd, golden wave of sentiment he feels as that enormous paw presses into him. It makes him want to sob and arch up into the touch because he suddenly feels achingly, terrifyingly **complete** , gloriously claimed and owned by something he never knew existed, and it makes him want to yank away and run, disgusted at this creature and at himself )_

 

Despite its awful size, the creature's paw fits and feels exactly right there, a key to a lock, and even though it was answered for him only moments ago it is then that Jack knows for sure that the marking has been modeled exactly after the Pooka's own paw. Perhaps a small part of him had hoped that the Pooka had been lying, but there was nothing in the creature’s visage Jack could have used to discredit his answers. However little else he might know, this in itself is infallible proof and he does not know what else to think of the situation.

 

Bunnymund's breath sounds gently against his ear.

 

“You’re my doe.”

 

“You say that like I know what it means.” Jack mumbles, but he does - at least he has a very close idea as to what the Pooka means, and it chills him to the very core.

 

“My mate.” Bunnymund clarifies. His claws prick like tiny needles into Jack's skin, the rough paw pads pressing into yielding skin. “Made and destined to be mine.”

 

Jack does not try pushing away; he knows it is impossible. He will only be yanked back into that suffocating hold, perhaps worse if Bunnymund takes offense.

 

“That’s not possible.” He says resolutely, determined to see reason where there is none. Deep in his mind the twisted images of his dreams flare brightly, a brutal mockery of copulation between man and woman. Jack shifts uneasily; why does his mind will such images now? What do they say of him, these haunts? “You’re insane.”

 

“Am I, though?” Bunnymund grips harder into Jack’s marking, and it seems to sear hotly in strange acknowledgment of its maker’s touch. A thin wail whimpers from Jack’s throat- he flinches and curls up tighter into himself, squeezing his eyes shut against the hot breath on his shoulder, sucking in a long breath of his own and waiting for the odd sensation to pass and allow him to breathe again.

 

“Does this seem coincidental to you, Jack?” Bunnymund snarls, lips pulling back to bare teeth. “That you were born with my exact print on you? That you’ve dreamt of me since you were born?”

 

At this, Jack’s eyes blink open faster than he tries to sit up, and Bunnymund presses him back down into his arms with a low growl.

 

In his haste for an answer, he allows himself to be repressed but spits out his question before Bunnymund can continue to snarl at him.

 

“I never told you of the dreams. At least, if I did it was never in detail. How do you know about them?” Jack demands, fighting against his cage, pushing back with his feeble might against the stony arms.

 

He does not see it from where he has forcibly been curled into fur, but Bunnymund smirks in amusement, the anger fading from his eyes. “When it concerns you I know all there is.” He says. “I don’t care for anything else.”

 

He sounds insane. He must be. Jack refuses to believe anything the creature says, because how can any of this be true?

 

He must be going mad.

 

A voice in his head laughs cruelly at him, so much so that Jack flinches from the sound, hurt. Who is this speaking to him within the privacy of his own mind? It is not a voice Jack has ever known.

 

_Would you prefer madness to simply allowing yourself to belong?_

 

A sob breaks past his lips without his notice. Surprised at himself, Jack wipes it away furiously, but more come soon afterwards, intent on wetting his cheeks despite his best efforts to stop. He has cried so much already, what good will more tears do?

 

“I never asked for any of this.” Jack sobs helplessly. He hates that tears feel like his only rational response now, as nothing he can say or do will convince Bunnymund that he is wrong, that Jack is not any kind of doe and that he just wants to be alone. He cannot use physical force nor his own wits to escape. He has nothing left but to wait to be released by his captor's own volition, and that seems highly unlikely to be granted any time soon.

 

Bunnymund chuckles softly, undaunted by the moisture. He removes his paw from the marking and shifts once more, pulling Jack with him to reposition them both. Stationed at Jack’s hip, he lowers his head to lick reverently at the paw print as Jack squirms and voices his protest, long tongue probing curiously enough to make Jack gasp and twitch violently beneath him. Something in his chest _sings_ in pleasure at the touch and it resonates just barely in his throat before he bites it down, startled.

 

“Sweetheart,” Bunnymund says, whiskery lips pressed against Jack's skin in a subtle grin, “Who said you had any voice in the matter?”

 

He goes silent then and gently unwinds himself from around Jack, pushing at his prized catch so that he lies spreadeagled on his back. Jack tries resisting but the Pooka is too heavy to throw off; a whine of fear escapes him when several reedy tree roots break past the earth's surface just as they'd done before, wrapping round his wrists and neck and pinning him so that he must lie flat or choke himself in his attempts to escape.

 

Straddling Jack, Bunnymund leans down to lick at his neck. His bulk is impressionable but it does not hurt overmuch; he shifts himself accordingly, balancing his weight so that he does not bruise or suffocate, letting it press more firmly on the ground than on his prey. He works open the buttons to Jack’s shirt with ease, pushing aside the fabric to clear a path, ignoring the suppressed kick Jack attempts.

 

_( the roots snatch him back into place, jerking his leg back to the ground; more roots knot and twist around his knees, forcing him immobile )_

 

His tongue is longer than any Jack has ever seen, lolling from his throat in a hungry sprawl. It feels velvety and slick against him, coating Jack’s vulnerable skin in hot saliva that cools quickly to leave him shivering and unguarded, the light of the flowers gleaming in the wet paths. He cannot do anything but watch the odd tongue venture further downward, thinking vaguely that if licking is all the Pooka wants to do then there is little need to struggle, until it suddenly occurs to Jack that Bunnymund could very easily split him open with a slice of his claw and devour him from the inside. The thoughts sets off a reflex in Jack- he jerks in his bonds, fear darkening his face as Bunnymund pushes closer, pressing his muzzle to Jack’s belly.

 

“No, don't.” He pleads. “Please, you said you'd let me live-”

 

Bunnymund's tongue slips up to his cheek. His eyes are closed, his breathing deep and evenly spaced as he presses the softness of his cheek to Jack’s, turning his head so that their temples connect, nuzzling him, murmuring a gentle _Shhhh_ and Jack flinches away, shuddering when the Pooka moves down to taste at his chest.

 

“What makes you think I'm going to kill you?” He asks, and if Jack were not so afraid he would realize there is amusement in that voice, not anger. “I'm not in the habit of killing my does, pet, even if they're stubborn and disobedient.” Bunnymund licks busily at a smear of dirt on Jack's ribcage, his tongue rough and gentle in alternating licks, working busily to clean. “You’ve been sweet for me today, even if it took you weeks of crying to get here. Is it so wrong of me to want to return the favor?” A chuckle sounds low in his throat. His fingers skim the edge of Jack’s mark; Jack knifes his teeth into his lip to stop the sharp intake of breath it provokes. “You’re practically mewling to take my cock already.”

 

“Kill me, then.” Jack hisses out, his throat straining under the roots' hold. “I'm never doing anything like that for you.”

 

“Is that so?” Bunnymund asks, and scrapes his pointed teeth against Jack's shoulder. The result is a light tickle, but Jack can feel how tensed his jaw is, how ready the Pooka is to snap his jaw shut and rip flesh from bone. “Would you say the same thing if I went and paid your sister a visit?”

 

Jack freezes, his words of defiance sticking uncomfortably in his throat. He cannot help picturing his mother's cabin strewn with blood, small feet lying bare as innocent eyes go lifeless and lackluster. He forces his lips together to hold back any more tearful noises. “ _Don't_.”

 

“Maybe I'll go for your mother first.” Bunnymund muses, his teeth sliding wetly against Jack's skin as he speaks. “I reckon she’d bleed tears at this point, she’s done nothing but cry for near an entire decade now.”

 

“Stop it!” Jack shouts, jerking against his restraints. “Stop talking!”

 

“Say you'll behave, first.” Bunnymund demands, and now his teeth are directly on Jack's skin, circling his flesh dangerously. He speaks with his lips curled, nose crinkled with his malicious baring of teeth. “Be a sweet little doe for me and I'll leave your family alone.”

 

Jack shakes and turns his head to the side, lips pressing together stubbornly. There must be another way to protect his family without succumbing to the Pooka's will. He will not say a word.

 

But Bunnymund will not have his silence. Angered by the resistance, he snarls low in his throat, daring his doe to defy him again.

 

“ _Answer me._ ” He orders around his mouthful of Jack. Then his teeth sink in

 

HARD

 

and Jack is screaming at the top of his lungs, legs jerking against the dirt in a useless effort to crawl away from the daggered teeth that have pierced him. Blood bubbles up out of the wound, trickling down his neck and smearing into Bunnymund's inky fur, staining his teeth. He writhes against the roots' hold and nearly chokes on his cries when they squeeze roughly to keep him from moving too far up.

 

“I'll behave!” Jack wails, sobbing outright, smothering the instinct to pull away for the sake of keeping his flesh untorn, body unmangled. “I'll do it, just-please!”

 

Satisfied, Bunnymund unhooks his teeth from torn, bloody flesh, his terrible tongue licking clean his teeth. Jack shudders weakly as the Pooka stripes the ruined flesh with more licks, no doubt drinking up the hot streams of red. As he laps up the blood, Bunnymund's paws rest idly on Jack's hips, claws noticeably retracted.

 

“Good.” He murmurs softly, and for the first time, takes Jack's cheek in a gentle paw and presses their mouths together.

 

Hard and furry and strange, it is as demanding and controlling as it is pleased: large teeth knock painfully against Jack's, the long tongue unwinds into his mouth and tastes all of him, gliding over teeth and gums, suffocating him. Jack is helpless to the repulsed hiccoughs surging up his throat as the taste of death and blood layers his own tongue. He cries into it- because he is afraid, because he is in pain, because he has by now been kept here for two and a half weeks, and because his first kiss is painful, breathless, inflicted upon him in a severity unmatched.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: [Wickerbird- The Fold](https://wickerbird.bandcamp.com/track/the-fold)


	6. the designation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack whimpers into the creature's mouth and tries not to fight. If death had a taste, would it resemble this? Like the tears that run down his cheeks and into their connected mouths, like the suggestion of old blood on that tongue and saliva that slicks onto his teeth?

The very second Jack had set foot into the forest the night of his capture, Bunnymund had felt the ground beneath him _shift_ , imperceptible to senses weaker than his own. A fragile, weeping sound erupted from the earth like a shout, scarring the atmosphere with the announcement of the arrival, telling all but mostly him, _especially_ him, he who had waited so much and who had owned the creature all along. He felt it, and he knew everything he had anticipated for years was about to begin.

 

 _Here_ , the trees had whispered, their rustling leaves carrying the sound back for miles to his attentive ears, eager to please him with the news even if he had heard it already. _Here, here, here,_ _ **here**_ _._

 

And Bunnymund had dropped the carcass of his current playmate, and he had licked his claws free of blood, and he had listened. 

 

 _At last_ , came the voices again, and an elated smile had spread wide across his lips. He could not think why the trees shared his enthusiasm, but he was not interested in an answer anyway.

 

The boy was here, and the boy was his for the taking.

 

Bunnymund lowered himself onto all fours, stretching his paws ahead of him experimentally. Could Jack feel it now, that sense of belonging rushing through his veins and thrumming fit to make them burst? Should he make himself immediately known, or should he stay in the shadows, watch the boy tremble and call for help? After so many long years of deciding, it suddenly became apparent to him that the manner in which he descended upon the boy did not matter so long as he had him (and _soon)_ wrapped in his arms. All that mattered in this day was the owning, the details be damned. Setting out into a sharp stride amongst the trees, throwing himself into the darkness and casting out his senses so that he might pinpoint the doe's exact location, Bunnymund decided upon improvisation. He would do whatever he pleased.

 

A faster route would have been to follow the trees' whispers: if Bunnymund had chosen to, that terrible plethora of entangled, crawling roots would have led him straight to where they all gathered and knotted, centered just underneath where the Moon's orb hung low in the sky. Using that method, he would have arrived much faster- but where was the fun in that? He had already waited so long, he could stand to wait a little more. There was joy to be found in savoring the moments leading up to the capture, to finally cease and solidify those several thousand dreams that had plagued Bunnymund in the years before of running and sensing and smelling and knowing but never reaching, never arriving, never **having.** Running now, not fast but quick enough, Bunnymund’s eyes shone bright with triumph, eager to have what had so long ago been promised to him. 

 

Three hundred and twenty eight years ago to this exact day, Bunnymund had been promised a gift. Today was the day he was collecting. Today he would have the boy.

 

He caught onto a new scent. Faintly smelling of smoke and bread and ice, the boy had wandered into the eastern perimeter of the woods; had he gotten lost, or had he come of his own volition? Likely he had gotten lost; the woods were extremely difficult to navigate at night, and the creatures that lurked in its depths were nothing to be trifled with. Anyone in the woods at this darkening hour would be desperate for something.

 

The boy's smell at this distance was feeble, only the slightest trace of its usual richness. Bunnymund sniffed at the air again; he was miles from his cabin, the sweet thing. Had they abandoned him amongst the trees, or sent him out on a fool's errand?

 

It would take any ordinary beast a handful of minutes to reach him. Bunnymund made it in mere seconds, driven both by his incredible speed and the demanding drum of his heart.

 

A stealthy arrival allowed him to crouch and slink behind trees; Bunnymund searched through the dark, eyes carefully picking out shapes in the dark until he saw the boy, standing still and peering fearfully around at the trees, aware that they gazed back.

 

He was beautiful, and in the dark his hair gleamed, just like another Bunnymund had seen years before- but even that was not a fair comparison, because nothing, _no one_ could ever compare to the beauty of his doe, those pale little fingers and that thin-boned frame that spoke of delicacy and resilience.

 

He was not a new sight by any means: Bunnymund had watched the boy all his short little life, always hidden well in the shadows but with keen, sharp eyes. It would never have done to leave his doe without protection- Bunnymund kept watch at every moment that he could, quietly fuming when the boy was tucked away inside in places that he could not thoroughly follow. How often had he crept into that cabin in the darkness! He would never tire of it, watching that still frame and sniffing at the bedsheets to smile at the faded salt of sweat and semen, adding his own for the boy to recognize and acknowledge along his skin. All those years, how enthralling it had been to watch the boy and learn all his little mannerisms, to memorize the way he spoke and the way he walked! More enthralling it was now to watch and know that the farce would be over soon, that he could grasp and bite and lick and never have to restrain himself ever again.

 

 Staring relentlessly from the shadows, Bunnymund allowed himself to devour the sight of Jack: far too lean- tall and leggy, but almost shapeless. Or perhaps the fault there belonged to that awful clothing he was wore; the villagers in this area, with their dull brown leathers and beige fabrics, had never had much sense for aesthetics or accentuating form. That sweet little head tilted to one side and the body went completely still, eyes glistening with moist fear as he listened for sounds of persual. Fear was a good look on him, softening the lines of his eyes with wet and curling his form in on itself, looking small and defenseless.

 

He knew something was coming for him, and he knew he would not be able to resist.

   

For years, Bunnymund had watched with muted scorn as the villagers smiled and talked with Jack, seeing the veiled pity and apprehension in their eyes that the poor, gullible little fool had never managed to notice. 

 

It was equally insufferable and amusing to watch. They treated Jack courteously in the daylight, but when it was night and all the families were safely tucked in their cabins, they gossiped about Jack's strange and stranger doings as the years went on. It was not difficult to notice the way he had sobered in some way; he laughed less now, seemed a little more meek where once only a year ago he had been almost brash, loud and free. 

 

It was such a shame, Bunnymund heard a woman say to her husband one night, when he had been watching them from the curve of trees in their backyard (he'd taken an interest in the mother; a shapely, vain thing, self-absorbed and committing frequent adultery). If the boy had not been born so damaged she might have encouraged their daughter to charm him. He would have made a good husband, and they would have certainly looked beautiful together.

 

The memory still caused him some anger.

 

_( he'd snatched her from her bed that night, and deep underground had made her bleed, punishment for daring to call his doe imperfect )_

 

Oh, there had been love interests. Bunnymund had seen them all and weathered his rage with increasing attacks of his own (he doubted the boy had ever made the connection, but paranoia was a fickle, clever thing- maybe he had _._

 

_( this girl in particular was the only one of Jack's would-be suitors that he killed. the others he had only toyed with, giving them frights when they played in the woods and instilling lasting fear into their soft little hearts._

 

_bolder than the others, she had tried to kiss Jack, and even though Jack had nervously avoided the contact Bunnymund had seethed at the attempt, aflame with jealous rage. a week later she had been out gathering wood with her father, and Bunnymund had made quick work of her catching. stunned by the speed of what was happening, she'd never had the time to shout._

 

_in the soft dirt of his nest, she screamed and cried as he tore into her dress, penetrating her in one rough move and slicing deep scars into her pretty shoulders. the large amounts of blood-loss made for a disappointingly quick death, and Bunnymund, so blinded by his rage, realized only afterwards that he had been fucking her lifeless body. )_

 

Each one had been the same: some stupid, wide-eyed girl, tittering annoyingly at Jack's words and never once looking away from him, always moving closer and eager to touch his hand, his hair, his shoulder. Perhaps it was purely physical attraction, perhaps it was the charm of his words and the sweet gestures found often in his hands. Or perhaps they too noticed what Bunnymund did, hidden and gathered around Jack in the oddest ways, showing itself in his bleakest moments: that unerring, half-tangible aura that something deep inside him had gone wrong, that he was fated for great, terrible things and that danger lay laced in his footsteps. 

 

Bunnymund never cared to tell which. Each time, Bunnymund had been wrathful, tempted to make his hidden presence known and snarl at his doe's would-be admirers, fling them away and gut them as they screamed.

 

_But Jack rebuked every advance._

 

He would be rewarded for that, of course. Bunnymund had always been prepared for the chance that Jack would fail to heed his instincts (he _had_ been created solely for Bunnymund, after all: surely he had felt each distinct flash of impersonal rage), but apparently he need not have worried. Even without Bunnymund's influence, Jack was _obeying_. Jack made no attempts to stifle the dreams that came to him, the urges for sex or the occasional sightings he allowed of himself in the forest, quick dashes of blurred movement though they were.

 

Bunnymund knew many things. Amongst them, most vital was that the boy dreamt of him, and he of Jack.

 

They had always been connected; physically, emotionally, mentally, in all ways. Bunnymund had caused flashes of anger in Jack that seemed to come from nowhere. He'd watched several times as the boy (in broad daylight- he would never have _dared_ do so in the night) had scrambled anxiously into the woods, hiding in the hollow space beneath his favorite oak and bucking into his hand, weeping in shame. He'd prompted several of these occasions guided by his own lust and that never-ending greed for a flash of pale skin and wet eyes.

 

Bunnymund too had felt Jack's own emotions: he had weathered those steadily growing pangs of fear and paranoia, tinging the tips of his fur and drawing them upright. These emotions did not affect him as his own did Jack- he knew how to control them. He knew how to use this connection as a means to further observe Jack's behavior.

 

Imagine his delight when the fear began giving way to desire.

 

Bunnymund had watched as Jack trembled in fear of his dreams and the stress of not knowing where they originated from or why. He'd watched as Jack had grown quieter, his playful nature dulling to something more sober, something that even his friends had not managed to observe.

 

The first dream Bunnymund had allowed himself to be felt in had been _sublime_ , a perfectsuccess. Jack had taken to him fairly quickly, comforted by his warm presence. He grew to expect Bunnymund there without knowing what he was really waiting for, and for some time Bunnymund was content to merely lie there and hold and protect. It was fine enough to hold the doe and warm him when in his bed he lay cold and shivering, when he was younger and needed comfort only, but the thing with animals is that _instinct,_ above all else, comes _first,_ and so the day Jack reached his seventeenth year Bunnymund's willpower shattered, overwhelmed by his need.

 

Though afraid and unwilling during most, there were those _perfect_ nights where he could coax something like consent from his trembling hands. It was all only projections of his wanting mind, of course: Bunnymund had yet to do such things. And even then, the dreams were satisfactory enough in the sense that Bunnymund could momentarily sate his hunger for the real thing. Willing or not, Bunnymund mated his doe each night- or, each night that he was able. More often in the beginning, there were days that Jack was able to quickly tear himself out of his dreams and keep awake all night, fearful of being subjected to that same horror once more (and on these occasions, Bunnymund grew more aggressive when Jack eventually succumbed to his exhaustion, punishing and bleeding until Jack learned the lesson and submitted).

 

Like this, he strung his little doe along, never once showing himself but growing more and more impatient as the years had worn on and as the affixed date approached.

 

Now, the day had come, and Bunnymund was close to salivating. Here was his Jack at last, barefoot and terrified and _he could feel it beginning_ , the way Jack's body, that marking and those brown eyes and the rapid thumping heart were calling out to him, reaching for his touch and pulsing fit to burst.

 

Jack was making far too much noise though he thought himself silent; Bunnymund's ears twitched at every quickened breath, listening as he swallowed impatiently. He was lost, obviously so, and searching intently for a way back.

 

Watching the boy had been like stepping into his own dream again, that one he’d had several years ago where the promise had been made. Seeing him there now was a star-shattering culmination of every single want Bunnymund had experienced in several hundred lifetimes, all personified in this perfect being and meant only for him.

 

As he stepped from the shadows, his nose caught onto a stronger scent and he latched onto the boy, his paws nearly dwarfing his shoulders.

 

It excited him, both the obvious fear in those shining eyes and the softness of his flesh. He imagined sinking his teeth into that neck, tearing into him and ripping out his heart to devour.

 

But that _scent_ -he could smell the anxious sweat pooling beneath Jack's clothing, the slight muskiness that came from just behind his ear and between his thighs. Better yet was the purity- within and without, and Bunnymund was more than overwhelmed with a wild urge to bite and tear and mark, to debase and crush that tender flesh and make the very word gone from his mind forever, crush that innocence between his teeth til it was nothing and scratch sin itself into those trembling thighs.

 

It was difficult to have the sense of mind to remind himself that he would have to make sure to thank the priest personally. If the boy had been kept as clueless as he'd been promised, Bunnymund was going to utterly relish the struggle and change that would come forth.

 

( _Obviously, Jack was terrified. He had no idea what was happening, what had happened, and what would. Since his capture, he'd done nothing but cry and reject Bunnymund's touches and words, firmly believing that this was all some terrible mistake._

_But Bunnymund would make him understand. He'd see to that right away._ )

 

He had never felt such intense satisfaction as when Jack had agreed to his deal and he'd grasped the boy tight, carrying him down to his nest.

 

Jack hadn't realized this at the time, and probably still has not, but Bunnymund had brought him _home_.

 

The promise was met, and the boy was _**his**_.

 

I I I I I I

 

In the wake of Jack's sworn good behavior, he falls again into another stupor.

 

This one rocks him gently, as though he lies on his back in water deeper than mountains go into the old earth, surrounded by nothing at all and in danger of going under. He is not comatose as before, but that disillusioned emptiness returns to his eyes, and his limbs once again become heavy, demanding much effort to move the merest inch. His sense of self feels either endangered or lost completely. Jack is not entirely sure which, but it has all begun to feel the same. Perhaps he left it out somewhere in the woods, caught on a low hanging branch or left desolate on the ground, just like his white blouse.

 

Bunnymund is waking.

 

He stirs; his arms and legs flex as he stretches, his paws clutching into Jack's hips. His claws slide out a little, causing a tiny, barely painful prick. He has been asleep for hours: Jack no longer knows what the passing of time feels like.

 

The Pooka nuzzles his nose into Jack's neck and breathes deep, eyes lazily blinking open as he finishes his odd, cat-like stretch.

 

“Are you ever going to sleep, pet?” He asks, smoothing a paw up Jack's spine. “You shouldn't be afraid, I promised I wouldn't hurt them.”

 

“You promised you'd take me home, too.” Jack whispers, wishing the defiant tone had held out a little longer in his voice.

 

“You _are_ home.”

 

Jack closes his eyes, surprised that the tears he wants to shed have long since dried up. “You need to stop being so cryptic and tell me what the hell is going on.” He says. If he were not pinned down he would throw up his hands in exasperation. “I don't know what you mean. I'm not yours. I don't know what you want with me.”

 

“Oh, but answers take the fun out of guessing, pet.” The Pooka replies. “I could tell you what you want to know, but then that wouldn't be much fun at all.”

 

Looking up at what he can see of Bunnymund, Jack feels a stirring of realization inside him. He looks gentle, almost infatuated, with the way he noses about Jack's neck and ears. His constant mentions of Jack being his doe obviously mean that they have some type of connection. These constant pet names, touches, long stares and talk of mates...

 

Slowly, the epiphany comes.

 

It has been a day and a half since Jack swore his good behavior, and Bunnymund has not touched a hair on him, or (as far as he knows), his family. Obviously there is no sure way of knowing. He is not allowed out of the nest unless the Pooka takes him himself. Other than the peculiar tunnels he creates, there are no exits to be found. Bunnymund is a clever, devious creature, and if the lore is to be trusted then Jack must be on his guard and do what he can to keep himself safe.

 

He must be obedient.

 

More than anything, Jack wants to return home. He longs for ensured safety, answers, his bed and his freedom and the comfort of the kitchen hearth, his mother's laughter and his sister's smiles.

 

This is what Bunnymund wants from him. Isn't that what he'd said, when he first trapped Jack in his nest?

 

These claims of Jack being his mate...can they really be true? The marking itself is evidence enough, and try as he might Jack cannot dispel the thought of it from his mind, the way his nerves _sing_ when Bunnymund touches him there and the effort it takes to hide it.

 

It is now very clear what he must do if he is to return again.

 

He is doing this for his family's safety, Jack reminds himself. He is doing this to protect his mother and sister, his home and his village as well. Bunnymund may not have threatened the latter directly, but it would be unwise to assume he wouldn't go after them, as well.

 

This is the only option he has to survive. How much longer can he go on resisting, anyway? How much longer does he have before his will gives, or before Bunnymund's patience wears thin?

 

Cautiously, Jack moves his hands up around the creature's neck and winds his arms around him.

 

His fur is so soft that it makes something in Jack ache brokenly, a long unfulfilled urge for something he cannot name; it tufts and spills thickly from between his fingers and pushes up against his palms. In the flowers' dim blue light, his hands stand out pale as clouds on Bunnymund's inkstain-black fur. He remembers from his dreams, how once he had grabbed handfuls of fur and tugged gently and how there had been an answering purr in response.

 

Bunnymund pulls away from his neck to watch him curiously, making no attempt to stop him. His ears perk forward in interest.

 

“If I...behave,” Jack begins, his throat going dry, “If I do the things you ask, will you give me the answers I want?”

 

A smile curls wide over the Pooka's lips; for a moment, Jack wonders if access to that face in his dreams would have halted his urges or only heightened them. When not contorted in superfluous anger, his eyes are almost bewitchingly green, upturned in such a way at the corners that his stare is unrelentingly holding.

 

He's obviously enjoying Jack's touches. Still smiling, Bunnymund trails a finger from Jack's cheek to his hair, brushing through it cleanly. “You already swore to me you would.” He says, but his eyes say something different.

 

 _'_ _W_ _hat else?_ ' His gaze asks.

 

Jack feels tears brimming in his eyes again. He has never cried this much in his life.

 

“I'll be your doe.” He whispers, and his mind spins dizzily at the words.

 

Bunnymund's left paw slides over his hip (he is wearing his pants again, but his shirt is still gone) and fits into his marking, making Jack twitch involuntarily. For a moment he feels a spark of hope: his offer will be taken up, he will have answers, he will be safe.

 

“You _are_ my doe.” Bunnymund says, and Jack's skin sears in acknowledgment of its creator, yielding under the soft weight of Bunnymund's hold. “Nothing you say or do changes that, pet. Deny it all you like and you'll still be mine, always.”

 

Jack's hands clench into his captor's fur. He wishes it were his teeth: he'd clench and rip out as much of it as he could and though there would be no escape, it'd still be worth it, watching the creature howl in pain. But he is not brave enough, and he has no strength. “ _Please_.” He begs. “I'll stop denying it, I'll do whatever you say. Just- I want my family to be safe. I want answers.”

 

Bunnymund yanks him close impatiently and kisses him hard.

 

Jack is still not used to the feel of it; a paw grips at the back of his neck and twists so that his head tilts, offering them both a more comfortable position. He can't keep his mouth closed, not when his hair is being pulled and there are sharp fangs dangerously close to his lower lip. He gasps and that long tongue sweeps in greedily.

 

“I'll give you what you want.” Bunnymund says. “I don't need your promises; I know I'll have you eventually.”

 

Jack whimpers into the creature's mouth and tries not to fight. If death had a taste, would it resemble this? Like the tears that run down his cheeks and into their connected mouths, like the suggestion of old blood on that tongue and saliva that slicks onto his teeth?

 

He tries pulling away but there is no success; Bunnymund's paw on his marking is a powerful glue, anchoring them tightly to each other and rendering him immobile with that one grasp. What frightens him is that he doesn't know if it's from Bunnymund's strength or the way his paw on the marking feels like a key to a lock, rough paw pads rubbing against the tender, darker skin.

 

Pulling away just enough to speak, the Pooka gazes intently at Jack and observes his newly reddened lips.

 

“But if it pleases you, pretty pet, I'll do it.”

 

The tiny thrill of success Jack feels at his response is flattened immediately when Bunnymund's paws encircle his wrists, and he is kissed again. But this time Bunnymund does not pull away; he presses forward until Jack's back is once again against their bedding of old fur and cold dirt and there is the hard, hot weight of his body atop him.

 

Glad that his offer has been taken, Jack feels relief flood and crash into him like a tide. He sniffles; his nose is running from the tears. “Thank you.” He whispers, and he is not sure why.

 

There is a brief flash of surprise in those green eyes and then Bunnymund's paw is stroking Jack's hair again. “You're learning your obedience fast.”

 

Jack nods mutely, unsure of what to say.

 

“If you want your answers, you'll start with calling me by name.”

 

Jack presses his lips together, wondering if he can do it without feeling the urge to vomit.

 

Seeing this, Bunnymund laughs, whiskers twitching. “You might call me your buck, as well. If that's not as difficult.”

 

The names seem wrong, odd titles on Jack's tongue that he can barely choke out. His voice wants nothing to do with them but he forces the sounds out.

 

_(there is a part of him that trembles with eagerness. Some implanted instinct rages against his mind, furious at his hesitance and this is all getting entirely too confusing now, none of this should make sense but it's all slowly starting to and he needs answers, so many answers )_

 

“Y-you're my buck.” He says, horrified.

 

Bunnymund's breathing quickens noticeably, the hot breaths on his face making Jack's eyelids flutter. He has gone very still; his ears are at full attention, his tail flicking visibly behind him. These promises of good behavior and compliance have him in a pleasant mood, eager to see how it will all play out.

 

“Again.” He demands.

 

It takes another minute before Jack can spit the sound out again. He works his throat until it is loose enough to let the words slip out, and by then Bunnymund has begun kissing heatedly at his neck.

 

It terrifies Jack, that he should be touched and held in such a way that suggests such fierce adoration. He struggles to keep his mind together, but his body has begun to react and he cannot stop it, can't stop himself from letting his mouth fall open and releasing tiny noises. His back arches, fingers curling deep into beautiful fur and when he says it, it hangs ominously in the nest's silence and makes Bunnymund's ears twitch attentively.

 

“My buck.” Jack whimpers, crying out when his lips are taken again and he has to pull away to continue. It is not even necessary, this third time, but he feels the need to do it, and it only makes Bunnymund's kisses harder, gentler, longer. “You're my buck.”

 

The kiss ends immediately after, and Bunnymund's smile has gone. The fur on his back is spiked, his fangs glinting as he speaks.

 

The look of approval in his eyes sends such a flood of inexplicable satisfaction up Jack's spine that he trembles with it, arms dropping off the Pooka's shoulders to rub in silence at the saliva and bruising marks along his neck.

 

“ _Very_ good.” Bunnymund says.

 

Jack knows this is the beginning of something larger than him. Today, something has changed. They can both feel it, tangible and charging the air around them like a current of lightening, forever burning them from the inside out and welding them even further together.

 

Perhaps Bunnymund will lie to him yet again. It is likely to happen and Jack is prepared for that, but if that is what happens then he has nothing left to offer or give in return for answers. Bunnymund seems to not care whether Jack consents or not.

 

This time, he accepts the kiss that is given to him and fights the shame that stings at his heart like long needles. He does not fight or cry, and allows only the tiniest of surprised sounds to escape him when he feels Bunnymund's cock, large and burning hot pressing against his body again.

 

 _A good_ _doe_ , a voice in his mind reproaches, _does not refuse his buck._

 

So Jack obeys, and cries only in relief when it slides between his thighs.

 

Bunnymund snarls into his mouth and Jack can feel all of it, the way the muscles in his hips and arm coil and release as he moves, the way his cock slides in and out of his pressed-together thighs. It seems to take far, far too long for him to finally go still and hiss as he reaches his release, and even then he continues fucking into Jack's thighs, still hard as when he began, groaning softly in pleasure.

 

Jack keeps his gaze set firmly away from Bunnymund, avoiding the sight of his body and the rhythmic motions of his thrusts. He does not dare to close his eyes.

 

It seems he is unsure of everything these days: it is so hard now, to know when something is a fact and when it is only guesswork.

 

Is he crying because he is relieved that Bunnymund has not yet tried to penetrate him, like in his dreams where he shrieked in pain and ecstasy and there had been blood and rough, brutal thrusts?

 

Or can it be because of that persistent ache inside him, the one he believes he will deny until his dying day? Can it be these tears are because of the derelict urge he feels burning away at him, the one that is desperate to feel something- _Bunnymund_ \- inside him, claiming him?

 


	7. the sanctification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is all coming down on Jack now, settling heavily onto his shoulders like layers and layers of water, like he has been submerged to the deepest point of an ocean and the pressure is killing him slowly, draining the oxygen in his lungs with deliberate precision.

 

“Bunnymund.”

The name sounds odd in Jack’s mouth, like a mouthful of pebbles lying atop his tongue and weighing it gently down: it comes out hesitantly, second-guessing itself.

Jack sighs. That won’t do. Bunnymund would never dignify such a weak call of his name with a response.

As if to prove his point, a long ear twitches half-heartedly in response, prompting him ( _again, but better_ ). Bunnymund does not wake, though Jack senses a shift in his breathing. Lying curled into Jack's side, he breathes in deep, enviably fast asleep with his arms around Jack’s waist. He returned from the surface hours prior, fed Jack some baked tubers and meats he had stolen, and fell asleep after watching him finish.

Their new domesticity is good in the sense that they are civil towards each other and Jack has not spent the week crying or cowering in fear, but it is still very hard to get used to when every moment feels akin to walking on eggshells for fear of triggering the creature’s unpredictable temperament and is left alone in the nest for hours on end.

It also does not help that at times he will resurface from a dream with the verses of the old lore familiarly perched on his lips, or that sometimes he will jerk awake with his hair plastered to his temples, body cold from a nervous sweat, and that he will look to his side and realize it was not a dream, that he really is trapped underground and the Pooka is there with him.

He can still hear them, the snippets of conversation and warning and gossip he overheard now and then, things he knows now he was not ever meant to hear.

_Wander not past the fences when darkness falls. Pray you will not hear death come._

How stupid he had been, going out so late at night in search of a damned skate. He should have left it there and waited till morning to retrieve it, no one would have been there to steal it. But there is no possible way he can rewrite the past. That is one mistake gone. Now he must deal with the consequences.

Jack chews his bottom lip and touches a furry shoulder, nudging the Pooka softly. In the nest’s dark the flowers glow dim, and their blue light reflects off the creature’s pelt, resembling a raven’s blue-black feather sheen, a beetle’s shell.

This time he firms his voice, clearing the hesitance from his throat. “Bunnymund.” He repeats, and this time both ears stir and Bunnymund blinks sleepily at Jack, his eyes and voice saturated with sleep.

“It sounds perfect when you say it.” He murmurs, and Jack marvels at how astonishingly human the Pooka’s behavior is, how soft and comfortable he looks in the aftermath of a pleasant rest. In this quiet, sleepy little hollow of their day, the scene is almost picturesque, a calm break in the storm of their gathering. It takes him another moment to realize Bunnymund is referring to the way Jack pronounced his name. His first time saying it, and he’d said it twice, calling quietly to the Pooka for assistance.

Things are changing.

Bunnymund yawns, the move almost feline with the way the tip of his long pink tongue extends for a moment past his pointed teeth. The silvery lines of his whiskers twitch sporadically, his pupils dilating to form near slits and then blowing up again. “Did you need something, darling?”

How does he even voice such a request? Jack chews the inside of his lip, his cheeks burning in mortification. “Can we go above?” He asks tentatively, saddened that he feels foolish for allowing a thin tendril of hope to thread along his words. “Outside?”

Bunnymund yawns again, his eyes flickering as he examines Jack’s features. He takes a moment to consider the fidgety tension in Jack’s legs, the way he rocks slightly, rolling on one ankle with ease. His laughter is soft, stirring Jack’s hair with the gentle huffs of breath. His arms shift, enabling Jack to wriggle free of his grasp; they both move to their feet, the earthen ground shushing them gently with every disturbance to its surface.

“You could just piss here.” Bunnymund suggests as he stretches, yawning again. Once again the pink tongue appears, claiming Jack's attention with its slow unfurl. He taps one large foot twice on the ground, and a large hole opens at his command, yawning open along the nearest wall, vanishing quickly into darkness. Will it be a long climb to the surface? Jack turns his gaze away to stare at his feet. The flashes of that tongue stir something inside him- memories, most likely, all those dreams where it suckled and painted him slick, made him beg.

“I just want to go outside.” He admits, peering timidly into the new passage. So much darkness. How can Bunnymund live this way, in constant shadow? Part of him itches to ask, but Jack bites the question back, waiting for Bunnymund to reply to him, turning to look at him. 

Bunnymund is scrutinizing him again, another one of those unfathomably deep gazes that makes Jack's heart tremble. Whatever he reads within him seems to satisfy the Pooka, for he does not oppose to Jack's wish. He beckons for Jack to follow.

 When they use the tunnels to exit the nest it is either a foot-first drop into a short fall and then a slowly elevated walkway toward the opening at their destination, or a climb, with the earth inexplicably packed into the form of stairs. Jack rather suspects Bunnymund does this solely for his benefit, for the Pooka normally traverses them in a full run, too fast for Jack to take in their surroundings. He waits to wander until Bunnymund sets foot into the tunnel, opting to walk this time as they begin the ascension.

Jack cranes his neck to observe the tunnel walls. A soft pang of awe resonates within him: it is as any other tunnel might be, just as earthen and iron-smelling as the nest, dotted here and there with thick beds of moss and tufts of grass. Withered and colored in shades that remind him of bruised skin, flowers grow out of the dirt, their petals heavy and waxen. Their paler counterparts, exact replicas of the glowing blooms in the nest, light the way. The dimness of their light when they are not clumped together thickly is almost comforting to Jack: he does not wish to see more than he has to, even if the curiosity tugs wistfully at his toes.

Most surprising of all, he realizes there are openings in the walls leading to several other tunnels. He halts abruptly at the first sight of one, teeth catching his lip as he observes the long stretch of black tunnel looming within If he were to run for it would he find safety where the tunnel led? Would it be open at the end and allow him safe exit, or does Bunnymund possess the ability to seal each one off, opening only those he sees fit at command?

A haze of thin green light swings his way, watching. Jack’s stomach cramps lightly in a fearful tremor- he should not have hesitated, Bunnymund has caught him pondering yet again at escape.

But they both know Jack would not succeed. The firm knowledge of that on his shoulders is hateful.

Bunnymund has ceased walking. He waits only yards away, saying nothing, but the threat in his silence is deafening. The temptation stirs, but Jack dares not cross that threshold. He forces himself away from the tunnel’s opening, back to Bunnymund’s side where they resume their path. He wonders if an apology is necessary, or if it would only worsen the situation.

The shafts of light cast by the flowers flicker, laden with odd, tiny speckles of glimmering light and motes of dust. There are long stretches where no such light reaches and the resulting darkness is oppressive, sticking in Jack’s throat in a gasp he refuses to give voice to, his fingers clenched to fists, arms clutched tightly around himself. Roots hang from the ceiling and knot into the walls, mercifully still. He inches closer and closer to Bunnymund as they pass through, terrified. He was never so fearful of the dark as this, but in such dire blackness it is as if he is blinded, walking in the most miserable of existences where nothing but he occupies a blank space. As if he walks amongst the night sky, and it contains nothing but himself.

Bunnymund presses close to him, no doubt sensing Jack's distress. He offers no spoken comfort; Jack reaches blindly for him and digs his fingers into the thick scruff, allowing the glide and roll of huge muscle beneath to calm him, the heat of Bunnymund's body to reassure him he is not alone. 

It helps to calm him. Jack closes his eyes at intervals, focusing on the pattern of their footsteps. Conversation will please Bunnymund, he thinks, and perhaps divert his attention from Jack’s mishap. He takes care not to show too much interest in the several other tunnel openings they pass by- surely the Pooka will understand his intrigue. “Where do these go?”

The Pooka flicks an ear. His stride is slow but longer than Jack’s; he walks on all fours, a great and terrible thing at Jack’s side. Even this way he towers above Jack. The muted pad of his paws upon the ground is the most haunting sound, studding Jack's unprotected thoughts with cruel flashes of his dreams. “Wherever I tell them to. I can be halfway around the world in seconds using these.”

Jack frowns. He cannot deny that the Pooka possesses unbeatable speed, but such a claim is absurd. “That can’t be possible.”

Bunnymund laughs. Since the making of their deal the week before they have both kept true to their word. Lately, Jack has done his best to tread carefully around the creature, behaving in the manner he knows is expected of him. Thankfully the Pooka has not sought to take advantage of this- he has not demanded for Jack to sate his vile needs, but still he watches, still he touches. It is troubling, sickening, but not surprising at this point. His hunger for Jack's flesh seems to have no end. He is as frightening as ever, but he does not once harm Jack.

“Neither am I.” He muses. “But there is much to thank for that.”

What could he possibly mean by that? Jack lapses into unsettled silence.

It is only when they are near to the exit that Jack finds answers to his earlier doubts. The sound of shifting earth startles him; Bunnymund chuckles, shifting to stand on his hind paws as he wraps an arm around Jack’s waist, reeling him closer where he leapt away in fright of a sudden blow or the crushing grip of ancient roots. Jack’s heart pulses weakly as he watches the earth crumble gently away from where before there had been nothing, revealing an overcast sky that blinds him momentarily, leaving him limp and struggling for breath in the Pooka’s arms. He can feel the atmosphere change as they exit, the scrape of open air against his bare arms and the nape of his neck cold and blissful, the dry grass prickling beneath his feet. He opens his eyes: even with the skies as gray and bordered by rocky, mountainous terrain, he can feel the faint press of sun upon him.

There is little snow. It must have melted off in a burst of warmer temperatures, for patches and mushy clumps of it still linger, and there is a bite of ice to the air. He has never seen anything like these mountains, their craggy forms audacious and mighty against the heavens, forming an impenetrable wall around he and Bunnymund, enclosing them into this tight thicket of forest as if they had known all along this would be their destination. Boulders and fallen trees catch his eye here and there, the sounds of a whispering river sweet on his ears.

A birdsong cuts off abruptly and the hissing of stubborn leaves on barren branches seems to lessen.

Everything goes quiet around the Pooka, he has noticed.

“Where are we?”

Bunnymund looks around, unimpressed. He has seen all of this before. “Colorado.”

Jack does not respond to this, either. He does not know what or where Colorado is.

He waits to be issued a command or warning before he sets off. Bunnymund provides neither, too busy scenting the air, though his ears swivel to follow Jack’s footsteps. This leaves Jack free to explore as he wishes, trekking as far as he dares from his captor to find a suitable place to piss.

His face flushes scarlet at the flood of relief that washes down his shoulders once he does, his fingers trembling in his haste to relieve himself and cover up quickly again before the Pooka returns, his cold hands repeatedly fumbling with the fastenings of his pants as he works to cover himself up again. There is no privacy allowed him: Bunnymund seeks to touch him at any moment, as if he cannot bear a lonely paw. Jack had expected the insolent touches, the sexual depravity, but the way he clutches at Jack! No, not this: the manner in which he puts enough strength into his grasp to force a groan or a gasp from Jack’s throat, curling his thick fingers as if to pierce through flesh and wrap around bone- as if he wars between wanting to devour and wanting to please, as if to make sure he is real-

He senses Bunnymund behind him before he speaks, the instinctual alertness of prey becoming aware of a predator presence: he yelps in fright when the arms slide home around his waist again, the weight of a heavy chin upon his crown bowing his head the slightest fraction.

The pleased rumble vibrating in his throat sparks electric shocks down Jack’s spine, the aggressive heat of his body flush to Jack’s back coursing through him like a flame to kindling, his stuttering gasps of _ah- hh_ misting finely in the open air. Is it the cold or the blatant want in the bodily contact that draws Jack’s nipples tight against the woven fabric of his shirt? The tendons in his throat strain as he lifts his chin, Bunnymund having slid down to nuzzle forcibly at his shoulder, sharp inhales greedily sucking in Jack’s scent, flaring his nostrils.

They sleep intertwined, spend hours together even if it is all involuntary on Jack’s part. Why, then, is the scent of him as intoxicating to Jack as his own appears to be to Bunnymund? The sharp spike of new grass and warm cedar, roiling, spicy heat of pinecones, the silken press of thick, luxurious fur clogging Jack’s senses, blanking all thought from his mind but the fear, and the sickly lust he remembers far too well.

“This is your territory as well, now.” Bunnymund groans into his throat. One paw seems to sense Jack’s distress, sliding discreetly up Jack’s chest: too heavily drugged by the closeness of Bunnymund’s lips to his, the rub of their cheeks together, he is not aware of the caresses until he feels the tight pinch of fingers abusing his nipple through the fabric of his shirt, the deep pulse of yearning and heat it evokes throbbing in his belly. “The trees will remember you. The ground will yield to your feet if you ask it.”

He is sensitive everywhere, every single touch administered to him eliciting a reaction he cannot stop. So, so new, and yet how? How is it that every touch brings his knees closer to buckling, every part of him trembling and virgin as if he has not already been taken so roughly by this same creature for hundreds of long nights without end? Jack’s eyelids flicker, his head lolling against the broad shoulder he is nestled into where Bunnymund frames him, the hem of his shirt fluttering, untucked from his pants so that when it crumples, caught in Bunnymund’s grasp, it lifts, baring a sliver of his marking to the cool air, allowing some of the expanding heat in his body to filter out.

The paw on his chest squeezes, claws encasing the tight bud of his sore nipple in a hard pinch. The fabric of his shirt rubs him raw; trembling, unsure how to react, Jack's lungs snatch for breath, his eyelids flickering; he yearns for the shirt to be removed entirely, its scrape against his skin too rough with those paws working him, cruel. God, but how would it feel if that tongue and those teeth suckling now at his throat to move downward, to latch onto him, to bite and **_s u c k_** -

Can Bunnymund read his mind? Or can he smell the damning desire in Jack’s breath? His actions increase in urgency in an instant, his teeth pricking into Jack’s skin in an eager bite as his paws search out the collar of Jack’s shirt. The noisy tearing of fabric brings Jack to his senses: realizing what he has done, shame hardens his eyes.

_How can he want this?_

His hands find purchase on the thick arm trapping him, tugging weakly. No. _No_! He will not succumb to this nasty trickery. So what if he dreamt it for years, that makes none of it right- worse yet that he must watch his tone for fear of physical punishment!

“Don’t-”He pleads, his voice half a whisper. It is an eternal struggle to drag himself awake from the cozy grip of the lust still clouding the Pooka’s eyes; he fights to ignore it, his hands gentle but firm as he pushes at the paws clutching him, even as the needy throbbing in all of him worsens in angry reluctance. “Please, don’t.”

Bunnymund’s demeanor flashes to something wild in an instant, like the spider-web splintering of cracked ice. His grip on Jack hardens, resentful.

“Will you continue to deny me this?” He snarls, hauling Jack more tightly against him, the paw that had been teasing his nipple now sliding further up to wrap around his throat. Jack’s heart races, his hands flying to grapple with his paws, desperate to pry him off. The grip is not enough to deny him air or do more than bruise, but it hurts nonetheless as Bunnymund drives him roughly into the trunk of the nearest tree; its branches rattle with the strength of the shove. “Have you forgotten that you belong to me? That I can do with you as I please?”

( a part of him, frantic, in his mind: _no, never!_ )

“No- I’m sorry.” Jack blurts miserably. The paw still at his throat keeps him pinned in place, unable to resist.

Things had been going so well, he had been behaving, he had kept his word! What had possessed him to ruin it? Was it truly so terrible if the Pooka wished to have his way with him when Jack had already experienced such a nightmare in his dreams? Why did he still fear it so when just seconds ago he had been biting his lip like a harlot, silently urging that paw to fondle him?

His eyes shine with fear as Bunnymund leans closer, the cat-like slits in his eyes narrow and clear in the daylight, lips curled in a vicious growl. “Remember your place. I’ll not hesitate to discipline you if need be, pet.”

A tear slips free of Jack’s eye, prompting him in his frozen fear to answer. He nods. He is being granted an easy way out, he will not waste it. “I will. I will, I promise.”

This seems to placate some of Bunnymund’s anger. Truly he expects swift obedience from Jack: how can he keep messing things up so terribly when it is so simple to obey? He deflates visibly, the snarl gone from his mouth as he lowers Jack to his feet once more. Jack’s breath comes in jolted inhales, shuddering: briefly, he contemplates allowing his knees to buckle and let himself fall at the Pooka’s feet to ask meek, pathetic forgiveness before a heavy paw makes the decision for him and lights on his shoulder, pushing until he is knelt in the grass.

Does he wish for Jack to grovel? Trembling, Jack risks a glance upwards.

The Pooka looms overhead, bent slightly at the shoulders to stare down at Jack, his eyes cold and demanding. All the anger Jack’s apology seemed to have sapped from him has collected in his eyes, instead. Jack resists rubbing at the soreness in his throat. It is a wonder the Pooka did not give in to his fury and strangle him here in the open for the trees to bear witness.

A voice, one he now realizes he has heard before, whispers

_A good doe respects his buck_

slyly into his ear.

Where do these murmurings come from? He frowns, noting the Pooka showed no reaction to the voice. Does he not hear it? Why do these cryptic words seek to coerce him in unison with the physical threats? Do they offer a means to survival, or guidelines for an obedient plaything?

“What are you, Jackson Overland?”

His name. Jack does not remember if Bunnymund has spoken it in its entirety before. He would protest at its use on that tongue if they were in the nest, fearful of the implications in the watch of those gloomy flowers, but here out in the open it seems less harmful, even if it still makes him flinch. Staring just at the Pooka’s feet, he struggles not to fidget or look elsewhere. The creature’s every inch radiates strength and vitality, muscle packed beneath gleaming fur.

It feels

_strange._

Even though he was forced into the position, he feels comfortable there in the grass, secure and small in the long shadow Bunnymund casts and it scares him, how right it feels to be here, when only moments ago he was fighting not to be choked or raped. Dull pains echo in the back of his skull: what a sickening marvel, all these emotions all at once.

He bows his head to hide his horror. Another teardrop escapes him, vanishing into the grass. “I’m your doe.”

Bunnymund shifts above him. Jack does not look up, not until his chin is taken delicately in a firm paw and he is made to look up. It is difficult not to express his horror upon noting that Bunnymund grasps with one paw at his groin, where the enormous bulk of his cock has begun to slide free of its sheathe. Jack blanches, flinching again, but Bunnymund’s claws prick into his skin in warning, forcing him to stay put. He commands Jack’s gaze with a single look, denying him any mental escape. “Exactly so. You’re my doe. My mate.”

“Yes.” Jack breathes. He hardly dares to blink, the sheen of tears glistening in his eyes already blurring his eyesight, threatening to moisten his face with his regret and fear. He is not any of those things. He does not want to be. But this is all he has been hearing in the weeks since his capture and he can feel it beginning to stick to him, the words and praise slipping underneath his skin to band tightly around his throat. There is so much evidence to prove otherwise. How much longer can he deny it? What other proof is there, hidden and waiting to surprise him with the reality of this absurd situation, that he is nothing but a prized cunt for this deranged beast to fuck?

The motions of his stroking draw Jack’s eye once again to the creature’s cock, widening in terror at its size. It is the first time he sees all of it up close- every other time Bunnymund had humped and ground against him Jack had done everything in his power to avoid looking at it, touching it. Massive, it juts horrifically from the Pooka’s frame, thicker than he can wrap his hands around.

He has only ever had it between his thighs. In dreams, certainly he knew the sheer size of it, the impossible length, but he had thought these grotesque details only to be effects of his mind’s perversion. All too well he remembers the pain cutting into his hips as the Pooka slid into him every night, the swollen length glutting into his belly, the absurd amounts of seed it spilled onto the ground and his limp form. Witnessing it now stuns him to silence.

Bunnymund eases his clawed thumb between Jack’s lips, parting them. He dips the digit into Jack’s mouth, and in his confusion Jack is not sure whether he is the one who pressed his tongue to the waiting pad or if Bunnymund closed the distance instead. The Pooka growls, pleased.

“A good doe,” He says, rubbing down, forcing Jack’s mouth wider open, “knows how to please his buck.”

Jack’s brow wrinkles. He does not dream of biting down or spitting out the intrusion.

“You always did so well for me in your dreams, pet. Even when you struggled. There was so much I was meant to teach you, and instead I whiled away the time touching you, making you know me.” The Pooka chuckles grimly. “But then we were limited to the time you were asleep, and now here you are, mine, _ready_. Do you know what cock worship is, little one?”

Jack whimpers. Bunnymund presses his thumb deeper, another finger lining up at his mouth to push inside but Jack places a quick hand on Bunnymund’s wrist, looking up imploringly into the molten green eyes. “I don’t. I won’t, please—“

"You will." Bunnymund angles his cock for Jack’s mouth, the thick thing flushed red, the glans as wide as the base, a fat line of seed already dribbling from the slit. “How else are you going to show me your devotion?”

Dismay drops Jack’s stomach to his toes. For a moment his head swims and he fears he will faint. Devotion, worship, obedience. He asks too much.  None of this can be right. But he cannot move away. This time there is nothing locking him into place but Bunnymund’s paw on his chin. There are no roots chaining him to the ground. What holds him there is another realization yet, the dawning of understanding in place of fear. He chokes slightly as he pulls off from the paw at his mouth, the fingers probing his tongue. A line of saliva stretches between them, drooping as the weight of it slowly bids it snap and hang from his lip.

“Do you mean to make yourself my god?” He whispers, stricken, his fast breaths betraying his calm astonishment. What sickness is this?

“You went to church, didn’t you? Then you’ll understand this one.” Bunnymund pulls Jack closer, accepting no response but the reluctant gag and whimper at the determined press of his fingers, forcing Jack’s mouth open, forcing them closer until the boy’s lips are directly on his flesh and he is shivering with delight. Jack’s skin crawls, bile rising in his throat, the exaggerated heat of Bunnymund’s cock on his tongue scorching him, the immediate, viscous salt of his precum smearing on his tongue and lips. “A god is everything to a believer. As such, a buck is everything to his doe.”

 _It won’t fit_. Jack’s eyes roll wide in helpless panic, glassy and terrified as Bunnymund pushes into his mouth, the weight of his cock flattening Jack’s tongue, stretching his jaw wide, already making it ache. He twitches in reaction, fighting to grasp and yank free, to push Bunnymund away at the hips but Bunnymund is far too strong to be swayed by even Jack’s mightiest push and if he is laughing, Jack cannot hear it over the rush of blood in his head. Oh god, Bunnymund is going to break him, the horrible thing will split Jack apart in every way and there is nothing he can do but let himself be used-

“Easy,” Bunnymund warns, caressing the underside of Jack’s jaw, coaxing him to some mockery of pathetic calm. The wet sounds of Jack’s gags and coughs only seem to excite him, his eyes glinting as he strokes through Jack’s hair with his unoccupied paw, the seizes of Jack’s inexperienced throat producing wet clicks and half-sobbed whimpers. Unthinking, Jack raises his hands to Bunnymund’s hips once more, aiming to shove or yank, anything to get him away and out of his mouth- he wants him to pull out, let him breathe and swallow normally but then the voice in his head reappears, a brutal hiss of

**_OBEY_ **

and Jack, seized by terror, his hands fisting into the thick fur, does exactly that.

I I I I I I

When Jack thinks of home, his village, he thinks of fire. Fire because it was what they relied on, that precious thing that helped them prosper. It warmed their hearths when the world itself seemed to freeze solid, lit the unseen and devoured the unwanted. Had they been pagans they would have worshipped it as an idol. And who could blame those that had lived before them, those that had worshipped the seas and skies and earth? Marvelous things that had come into creation by some power that escaped them, that went on living and churning and growing long after they themselves had gone past.

_( outside his thoughts, Bunnymund growls something to him and Jack shrinks further within his thoughts in a blind panic to distract himself )_

He thinks of autumn, and the way the leaves rustled crisply in the wind, their decaying paper bodies veined with age.

He thinks of how some days he played hopscotch with his sister, the two of them returning from their lessons with their pockets full of white stones they’d found on the paths, perfect to lay in the grass for a visible outline of the leaping blocks. Of how sometimes he arrived in a rush, his apologies sincere but flustered, for he had become prone to lapsing to daydreams even during his classes, easy prey to the ghostly slide of a paw against the inside of his thigh.

Of cold mornings, frost specking the grass even in the summer before the sun rose, gone come sunrise.

Something about the village had always felt wrong to Jack.

It was not the deaths. That, he had never doubted- it was the same thing every time, the corpses always recovered in a canvas sack, the blood seeping through grotesquely, the churchmen in their black garb somber as they carted the remains to the mortuary for identification and examination. The reality of death had been prominent to him from an early age- how could it be ignored with the stench of victims’ cremations greeting him in the thick of night?

_( a nearly successful interruption- where Bunnymund slid carefully into his throat now he is increasing the pace, thrusting harder, deeper. The heavy weight on his tongue makes Jack gag, hardly able to breathe for its snug fit to his mouth, the engorged glans probing the back of his throat as if eager to make him retch )_

They were not the only settlers in the area. Often when he had gone adventuring through the woods for lack of something to do, Jack had found remnants of long-gone passersby: fire pits and signs of torn down camps, scraps of fabric and leather, the tracks of wagon and buggy wheels leading far off to the West. Jack had never been outside of the village to see the budding nearby towns, though he had no reason not to make the journey. It had always seemed to him a wrong thing to leave, even with as much as he desired to escape the suffocating confines of a small populace that seemed to know and abhor his every move.

Once, Jack had found a dirt-crusted canvas sack embedded into the earth beneath a rotted log. He does not even remember how it caught his eye, so well hidden within the muck as it had been. It had taken effort, but after dislodging it and carefully prying it open, his greedy curiosity had been rewarded. Within the sack he had found several sheaves of paper, browned with age. They were not letters as he had initially thought: one particular sheet had been so weathered and moldy he had feared touching it, but there was no mistaking the boldly lined design of a bipedal, enormous black rabbit inked across its surface with a hasty hand. Had these people gotten so clear a glimpse of the Pooka to be able to paint his terrible visage so confidently? It was not the first depiction of him Jack had ever seen- the record book bore similar sketches if one was resourceful enough to snatch a glimpse at (he had), and often a doodle or hasty scribble of the creature would be drawn here or there on desks in the schoolhouse or etched into the bark of trees by his peers in youthful tomfoolery.

( _now that he knows finer details of the Pooka’s face it is striking thing to recall those illustrations and be able to pick out the errors and differences provided by limited exposure and fantastical expectations based on legend_ )

_( here again he is interrupted; a threat is hissed into his ear. he obeys the command with a soft wail, his cheeks hollowing as he swallows, the resulting pulse drawing a long moan from Bunnymund_

_and then something fire-hot sparks inside Jack, like a switch, and he knows Bunnymund felt it too, for his smile gains an element of treachery, for he pulls on Jack’s hair again to haul him off the turgid line of his cock and dives for a kiss, and Jack in his newfound confusion accepts it readily, even with his mouth flooded with saliva. Bunnymund attacks his lips with vigor, his fist stirring the air between them as he jerks himself excitedly. when they break apart at last jack hardly has a moment to suck a breath into his lungs before Bunnymund is slotting himself back between Jack’s lips, and they moan in unison, the sound disastrous to Jack’s ears  )_

His thumb had brushed over a tiny speckle of blood, and Jack knew then that these travelers had not survived their journey through the woods.

No one had ever been known to survive an attack. If such a miracle had ever occurred, it must have been before Jack’s time or omitted from the records entirely. All they had ever known of the Pooka and his endless reign of terror was outdated information handed down from previous generations- supposedly, once there had been a time where he had been more reckless with his assaults, forgoing his current shroud of secrecy for blatant joy of bloodshed and chaos. It had been known that he dwelt in the woodlands but was not limited to one such location. Philipe had told him once that, years before Jack’s birth in his mother’s youth, the village had gone through a panic upon realizing the creature had taken to haunting their neck of the woods almost exclusively, a behavior previously unheard of. He was of course not the only strange predator the night had to offer, but he was by far the most prominent, the strangest they knew to fear, known to them for rumors of his spoken taunts and atrocious habits.

_( a tug on his hair spikes pain in his scalp, startling him from the protective cocoon of his thoughts. this time there is no escaping it- his thoughts scatter, the flimsy shelter torn to blank shreds. )_

He yelps, startled, and chokes again around his mouthful of Bunnymund, spluttering. Somewhere inside his head he hears the sounds he is making, the obscene crackle of helpless sobs in his throat, the guttural coughs seizing in his throat dampened with the thick of his saliva. He can feel it all, every erroneous twitch of Bunnymund’s fingers in his hair, every lewd glide of engorged flesh rubbing against his swollen tongue, the ribbed underside of the roof of his mouth.  

Perhaps it is because of every night he suffered alone in that darkness, pinned by these same paws that Jack knows how to accommodate Bunnymund into his mouth with minimal discomfort. His body falls into the motions instantly, even as his throat continues to cramp and he chokes for air; he loosens his jaw to allow for a smoother glide, and Bunnymund takes advantage, plunging deeper yet with a satisfied hum.

“Don’t panic, Jack.” The odious creature whispers to him, lip wrinkling as he pushes forward on the back of Jack’s skull, forcing him to take in more. The stretched gape of Jack’s mouth burns in exhausted agony, his throat straining from the pressure as Bunnymund thrusts in to meet the back of his throat. Another series of wet coughs, barely controlled gags- Bunnymund listens and watches attentively, the glow of rapture in his eyes fierce. “You’re doing well.”

His mouth is too full to reply. Even if he wished to, Jack is not sure he could have found the strength to move his jaw. Panic seizes in his fingers, clenching them tight in his grip on Bunnymund’s fur,

He would give anything for the ability to scream, yank the atrocious length from his mouth, and yet- and yet-…

For all the defeated grief hammering between his ribs, there is an element of calm to the scene, a woodsy quiet that perhaps might have even qualified as serene if it were not for the way Bunnymund pants above him, the measured, slow huffs of air denoting his need to pace himself lest he give in to an urge more violent. His hips roll in smooth waves against Jack’s mouth, meeting fur to flesh in a firm clash, withdrawing to allow Jack a short breath only to reappear within seconds again and again and again in a smooth cycle. The noises he makes match Jack’s in their fervor, moans that hang low from the moan-slacked drop of his chin, his breaths steaming in the air, the pleasured rumbling in his chest palpable down to his groin where Jack still clutches his handfuls of fur, too frozen into the position to release his grip. Saliva pools heavily in Jack’s mouth; every thrust forces it from him in messy currents so that he drools openly from the mouth, the warm tendrils of liquid snaking along the underside of his jaw and down to the line of his swollen throat. It strikes him in the most curiously passive manner that if he were to put a hand to his throat he would feel the bulge of Bunnymund’s cock within him, obstructing his already harried breathing. He gags again.

He finds that in spite of himself he cannot find the energy to act on any of his possible rebellions- his hands will not move if he bids them, his jaw will not force itself shut. Faintly he can hear himself sobbing from the desperation of his guilt, of not knowing what it is, what reason exists inside him that will not allow him to resist. Something about the entire act is spellbinding. The grasp of fingers in his hair is unrelenting, the weighty paws guiding him into the motions, pulling Jack forward to stretch his mouth wide around the base of his cock until he is spluttering, choking for breath, the press of warm fur against his nose and lips a caress to join the others. His lips feel rubbed raw, coated in his own saliva, his tongue utterly flattened beneath the engorged flesh. Jack is rendered motionless by the Pooka’s demanding clutch except for the frantic gulps of his throat, sucking for air, helplessly suckling the flesh forced into his mouth. His eyes are glassy and wide, his face devoid of color except for the flush of his trembling mouth: when Bunnymund tugs on his locks, prompting him to look up, the sight of Jack sniveling and shell-shocked must be in some manner irresistible, for his face contorts in a sharp twist of pleasure and then his claws are pricking Jack’s scalp, and he is twitching and spurting wildly in Jack’s mouth, yanking him closer so that he spends himself into Jack’s convulsing throat.

He is finally finished! Jack weeps from the relief, finally spurred to action; he pushes weakly at the firm body plastered to his, whimpering in spite of his complete lack of voice, the words only smothered gurgles: _please, I can’t breathe!_

Bunnymund appears to take some heed: gasping, his large chest heaving, he dislodges somewhat from Jack’s throat. The resulting _pop_ makes Jack’s belly twist uneasily, but Bunnymund lingers yet, the atrocity of his cock sprawled swollen and horrible along the line of Jack’s tongue, hollowing his cheeks. The torrent of abuse has left Jack’s mouth feeble, his jaw slacked: seed gushes messily past his lips, spattering in a filthy mess upon his skin, coating his chin. He can barely entertain the idea of wiping the horror away; every part of him feels leaden. It would be futile, nonetheless, for Bunnymund has not quite finished: grunting, he jerks his hips a final few times, greedily ensuring that the abused ring of Jack’s lips wrings the last of his orgasm from him.

Molten and viscous, the Pooka’s seed glazes heavily atop Jack’s tongue, clogging his throat as he struggles to breathe. Coughing only makes the scratchy pain in his throat increase. His tired limbs ache to crumble into the grass, but Bunnymund keeps him on his knees for the moment, caressing Jack’s cheeks, drawing the pads of his fingers across sticky, trembling lips, smearing the results of Jack’s terrified efforts across his cheek in a tender, sweltering streak.

_You were made for me._

The memory of those words rings dully in Jack’s head. The taste of Bunnymund cannot be avoided- his seed lines the walls of Jack’s throat, clogging it, forcing him to breathe through his nose. He cannot indulge the urge to vomit or spit it out, not with Bunnymund eyeing him so keenly.

He knows what is expected of him.

With difficulty, Jack swallows, tears lining his cheeks. It takes several gulps to clear his throat and tongue of the byproduct, and still he can taste it- the salt of him warms Jack’s throat as it slides down, an extremely subtle and completely odd tinge of bitterness flavoring the milky substance. It is almost cool on his tongue, this curious little note: it reminds Jack of flowers, chalky stems that teardrop bitter liquid when broken in halves. Oddly, it is comforting to the bruised lining of his throat, almost cool, the sensation of it akin to a tickle amidst the heat. That had not been there before, in Jack’s dreams- he wonders how much more newness he will discover.

His nose itches, inundated in the lasting scent of Bunnymund’s fur, the prominent scents of greenery and fresh flora, warm animal and rich earth. He lifts a feeble hand to his mouth but lets it hover there near Bunnymund’s paw in a silent bid of permission to wipe himself clean. The Pooka shakes his head, his smile serene.

“You’ll swallow every drop like a good doe.”

Jack cannot protest. He cannot even feel the whisper of his own voice against his tongue.

Bunnymund drags his paw along the underside of Jack’s chin, gathering a palmful of seed that sluices like water from his flesh. He rubs his thumb into the viscid mixture, bringing it to Jack’s mouth in wordless command. The warmth from his paw, at least, provides some solace in the fact that it is not once again wrapped round his throat.

Shivering on his knees in the grass, Jack purses his lips for the briefest moment he dares risk, stiffly shifting to wrap his arms around himself in search for warmth. What a pathetic wretch he must look now, dirty and sodden with the creature’s semen, positioned carefully at his feet with his mouth freshly raped. The look of delight in his eyes when he had forced Jack to meet his gaze! How unabashed his lust for Jack’s pain! How he found release through all of his sniveling is a mystery to Jack, but there is no doubting the Pooka’s satisfaction- even if it was involuntary, even if he had no idea what he was doing, Bunnymund seemed to have greatly enjoyed his abuse of Jack’s mouth. There is nothing in his behavior now to suggest any dissatisfaction or anger, but even in his quiet calm he leaves no room for disobedience. He holds his paw to Jack’s mouth patiently until Jack has mustered the strength to lean forward. Once again, he cannot find it in him to resist.

He swallows it all, just as before- every droplet sinking all too easily down his throat in a gulp he does not remember deciding to make. The action simply takes a hold of him, an impulse disregarding his disgust. Only once it is truly inside him does the realization sink in.

“Congratulations.” Bunnymund says to him. He sounds out of sorts; his eyes track every frail peek of Jack’s tongue as it dabs across his laden fingers. Breathless after another successful conquest, his eyes gleam, the delicate threads of his whiskers twitching- Jack can see the awful triumph there in the swell of his breast. He has sensed the change, knows what that terrifying disconnect inside Jack’s mind was as though he had called it into action himself. “You’ve just had your first trance.”

Jack listens from the depths of his peculiar daze. A trance, Bunnymund called it. Is that what this is, this cursed stillness and freezing of thought? Was it Bunnymund who triggered it within him, or is it simply Jack’s instinct for self-preservation utterly failing him?

Bunnymund purrs gently at him as Jack laps up the spread of his seed, splaying his thick fingers and turning his wrist this way and that to allow for an even cleaning. If he notices the hints of gags and grimaces on Jack’s lips he does not seem to care in the least. The only thing that matters to him is the compliance of the little tongue, the horrified eyes cast demurely below to their feet to avoid witnessing the act brought to completion.

Jack hardly knows whether he has finished the task or not before he loses whatever strength lingered in his limbs: in his dismay he is not sure if he is fainting or merely at last sapped of all strength. It matters little, for Bunnymund senses this immediately, moving to catch Jack as he crumples. Together he lowers them into the grass, shielding Jack from the brunt of the sodden grass by keeping him tucked into the bulk of his chest. He does not seem restricted to a single orgasm; his cock remains fully erect and prominent against Jack’s hip. He grunts at the friction between their bodies as he pulls Jack close but makes no effort to continue taking his pleasure from the limp form. The thick of his length glides slick and messy against Jack’s thighs, causing tiny shivers to ripple up thin shoulders.

He bends to press his nose to Jack’s jaw, the line of his tongue unfurling for a taste of sweaty, chilled skin. “You’ll have to endure a bit longer, I’m afraid. I can’t quite seem to get enough of you- I’m sure you understand.”

He had suspected as much, but still Jack feels disappointment scissor into his heart, continued dread building. He is listening, but just barely. It is all coming down on him now, harder than before- it settles heavily onto his shoulders like layers upon layers of water, like he has been submerged to the deepest point of an ocean and the pressure is killing him slowly, draining the oxygen in his lungs with deliberate precision. He feels foggy with confusion, disoriented.

Shaken, he lifts the crook of his elbow to his mouth and this time successfully wipes clean his mouth, though his arm shakes. The gauzy slick of mingled semen and saliva this leaves on his arm is hotter than a branding iron.

“Lie still.” He is told.

He is too leaden to not comply. His arms lie stiffly at his sides, fingers motionless. His heels dig softly into the earth, his jaw still slack. The cold air hurts his teeth but he cannot seem to bring his lips together. Idly Jack wonders if this is how it ends for him, battered and pulled by strings to obey like a marionette by a force he cannot resist.

Bunnymund’s gaze on him is bare. In it, as it drags along every inch of his body, Jack can see the naked hunger, the harrowing need aflame as if it is one of the basic necessities for life, and a stranger thing he cannot name. He is certain he has never seen that kind of softness in any eye before.

The Pooka dips his head to Jack’s chest, snuffling observantly. The move is no longer curious: by now he must know with exact precision every detail to Jack’s scent. When the long tongue comes to give his nipple a lick, Jack twitches but does not utter a word.

The large paws move kindly along his flesh, the strict guidance from earlier gone; they hold him with delicacy, no claws to spoil the considerate gesture. Tenderly, his tongue caresses, its textured surface laving and nursing Jack’s nipple until it is left puffy and flushed, the resulting heat between Jack’s legs earnest and sickening. He moves to reciprocate on its twin, and Jack grasps at the flattened grass beneath him, his knuckles and lips blanched. Bunnymund continues the treatment where he pleases, tasting behind Jack’s ears and down the sides of his neck, smoothing down between his thighs and fingers in long, luxurious licks.

Jack has never felt anything like it. He trembles in spite of himself, closing his eyes against the sight of the Pooka’s head bobbing along his belly, the flat tongue gliding; each stroke pushes a shallow hiss of breath from Jack’s mouth. He has never been touched with such _care_. He had expected more roughness, the more demanding press of teeth and claws.

A kiss on the inside of his thigh, then on the opposite. Fur compresses sweetly around the swell of Jack’s sac; he cringes, mortified, when his cock jumps in reaction.

“I’m just grooming you.” Bunnymund murmurs. “Relax.”

It is a lie. He knows what he is doing, the damnable beast- he knows where to press with his tongue, where to suckle to get Jack to mewl. He has tested it time and time again in those black nights where he viciously toyed with Jack, and here he is now, the real thing so much more merciless and electric that each point of contact is a blessing, each errant swipe of fur and muscle against Jack’s mark even through the fabric of his clothing makes him gasp, choke on his breath. Energy thrums within Jack, fizzing in his blood. Feverish, he clamps his lips shut with a painful click of teeth. His nipples remain perked from the previous attention, the fleshy nubs still raw from the sucking and careful scrapes of teeth; his belly feels tight with apprehension, his cock firm against it, pulsing, _needing_. He hates himself for it. For being aroused and for wanting to take himself into his fist, for wanting the disgusting tongue there, and lower, for the clenching of his muscles, his thighs taut, his anus winking tight, the betrayals of a body well-versed in their nightly fornication. He damns himself to hell with a bloodying clash of teeth on his tongue when a sly paw wraps around his cock to squeeze

and he whimpers “ _Oh, God!”_ as he orgasms in a dizzying instant.

Is it possible to go any more boneless than he is now? The pleasure strikes him dumb, overriding his internal resistances to most basic bliss: his fingers fly to clutch thick fur, hips weakly mimicking the thrusts Bunnymund had conducted into his mouth as the grinning creature licks his lips, chuckling, pumping Jack’s length in his great fist until the steady shoots of cum sputter to errant sprays, then nothing. He convulses slightly, panting as he regains control of his limbs, color slowly draining back into his vision where the starburst of his orgasm washed everything white. Fresh seed glistens prettily on his belly, defying him; droplets speckle his chest here and there.

Jack’s head lolls in the grass, his eyes open but unfocused, chest still heaving. It is the hastiest orgasm he has ever had- one of the best, undeniably, better than any he could have wrought with his own hand. A single touch brought him to this, and still he doubts.

Another fat tear strides down his cheek. What else can he do but resist? And what shall he do when the choice and the fight are taken from him like this very moment, what then? Does the universe itself wish him to succumb?

Bunnymund never stops smiling.

“Forgive me, pet. You’re so lovely when you’re overwhelmed.” He releases Jack to hunch over the spray of release painting his ribs, one paw splaying against his sternum to keep Jack still as he mouths at the mess. Again appears the tongue to drag along slick skin, no hesitance or malice in his features but sheer joy, every other lick punctuated with a kiss. The grooming resumes swiftly, as studious and loving as before, this time accompanied with small murmurs of praise whispered into his freckles. It allows Jack a moment to breathe, and observe.

The dedication with which Bunnymund grooms him makes Jack’s eyes go wet at the corners. They come even as he squeezes shut his eyes in foolish protest. Perhaps it is his exhaustion or his shame that causes it, but nonetheless, tears slip from Jack’s eyes and stripe down his cheeks, into his hair. It is the kind of dedication he remembers seeing in the chapel back home during prayers and hymns- the way the Father’s eyes always shone

madly,

 _reverently_ ,

when he spoke of God.

This same look is thick in the glaze of Bunnymund’s eyes, prominent in every touch to his body, and he fears it means more than he will ever comprehend.

How much time has passed since they arrived here? It all seems to slow and hasten at will: the sun is setting now, lethargic and fat amidst the clouds as it pierces through them with its orange glow. The light clashes oddly with that of Bunnymund’s eyes, canceling out their glow but sharpening the points of his slitted pupils to blood-tipped obsidian. Whiskery kisses trail upwards from his belly. A paw takes his hands and then the kisses alight there, too, dotting the insides of his palms, the pulse points in his wrists, the tops of his shoulders. Jack opens his eyes to watch, silent, astounded.

Fingers wind into his hair.

Jack knows what this means. The shaking in his bones returns, his entire frame wracked with shivers harder than he has ever experienced in his life. Does Bunnymund not see how lifeless he is? Will he force Jack to pleasure him until he dies of fatigue?

His knees creak as he is maneuvered back into those possessive arms. Bunnymund takes a kiss, tugging him by the wrist to follow as he lies back in the grass so that this time it is Jack hovering above, brought to his knees between the Pooka’s legs. Their eyes lock: Jack is stunned when he sees warmth there. Somewhere in the depths of him, something has thawed away, falling loose to reveal a devotion so fierce that the tears renew in Jack’s eyes. When Bunnymund kisses him again it is hungry, but there it is once more, unavoidable, that mad, desolate need he would expect from one whose lover has been gone a multitude of years.

Who is he to Bunnymund that the creature consecrates him so? He is no hallowed being, no supposed doe reincarnated from a past life. Does he revere Jack so much as a person, as his supposed true mate, or only some glorified idea of one meant to bend to his every command?

He breaks their silence with a croak in his voice, his voice scratchy. It is uncomfortable, but he must. He was promised answers.

“How is this madness real?” He asks. It is a waste of a question: he has asked this before, and has yet to receive a straight answer. “How do you know about me? How is it that you haunted my dreams, why did you never explain this to me then?”

Bunnymund pulls Jack closer. This time, he prods him more gently, and Jack is aware of everything that is happening now and he is frightened more than anything but he obeys, because Bunnymund is being gentle and because he must honor his promise if he is to prove that he can obey as expected. He does not cry, but as Bunnymund pushes into his mouth once more he feels something inside himself ache familiarly, discreet but not unnoticed.

“The moon told me so.” Bunnymund replies, and they begin again.

 


	8. (and once) in a paling light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack does not question how or why Bunnymund keeps such attention to time. He doesn't care to know how long he's been here but at the same time he does, because the days drag on and then shorten all at once and it leaves him grasping at some now-foreign concept of time, wondering if he'd ever really understood it at all.

For days afterward, Jack can taste semen on his tongue.

 

It is the strangest thing- the taste is not a nasty, decaying thing, and for that he is grateful, but its continued presence unnerves him. It remains as curiously bitter-salted as when it splashed, fresh and damning, into his mouth: the memory of its getting there grips him viciously, refusing to let Jack forget his struggles for breath. Of this he knew he would be unable to rid himself of, but why the taste! Is this normal? He has no certain way of knowing. He snatches every opportunity Bunnymund presents him to bathe and wash, scrubbing vigorously at his mouth and tongue, bristling when the Pooka chuckles knowingly at him.

 

It could be worse, he tells himself repeatedly, a lost lament guiding his fingers as he scrawls them through the soil

 

_( he ought to have found a way to keep track of the days passed- stones lined up in the dirt, scavenged twigs, anything )._

 

His throat could still be battered, his mouth fucked so raw he could barely stand to speak or eat. Bunnymund could still be pawing at him, insisting that Jack give him his mouth again. Jack had been expecting it once they had returned to the nest, him limp and utterly devoid of life cradled within the Pooka’s arms, and Bunnymund silent but nurturing, genteel as he lowered them into the soft earth to rest. He had expected to wake within a hardier grasp, witness to dulcet panting in his ears, Bunnymund thrusting madly into him, but no such thing had occurred. This confounds Jack to no end. Is Bunnymund’s control over his lusts so great that he can truly keep himself from ravaging Jack as frequently as he wishes, or is this all part of some wicked plan? Is this method of assaulting Jack in regular, spaced out intervals meant to fool his body and mind into awaiting, even desiring it?

 

The fear no longer overtakes him at every breathing moment. He feels himself growing… _accustomed_ to this, day by day, this living in the gleaming dark where every sound is enhanced by the silence, the Pooka a constant presence near or on him. Something of it is taking root in him every time he drifts off to sleep, nestling into the deepest recesses of his mind: in the stillness he can feel an insidious something shifting subtly in his skull, emotions and thoughts he cannot understand all reforming and burning up until there is nothing left of them at all. Some nights it is so overwhelming he cries from the strangeness of it, scratching at the earth and pleading for Bunnymund to make it stop, jerking and kicking like a pup restless in his sleep until the arm around him constrict tightly to halt his panicked fight, fingers pinching the nape of his neck until Jack stills obediently. But even these outbreaks have begun to lessen, for the darkness of his new environment bothers him less, too: Bunnymund’s constant presence is in some ways a reassurance against other dangers. And why should Jack fear the darkness when it was there all his life, devouring whatever innocent dreams he might have had once? There is always the sound of Bunnymund’s peaceful breathing, the even and thunderous pace of his heartbeat when Jack lies close enough to hear it, the radiant heat weeping from his great form. There is always a tell of his presence. There is always the Pooka nearby, the watchful buck.

 

He is becoming used to captivity. The thought terrifies Jack.

 

When Bunnymund is away, gone to his curious, violent activities aboveground, Jack works studiously to meditate and find calm within himself, searching for pleasant memories of his former life

 

_( god help him, will he ever return home? )._

 

He thinks of his mother and her tired gray eyes, his sister and the endearing gap between her front teeth, what precious, mysterious little he remembers of his father; he thinks of Philipe and his unhesitant kindness and his friends who waited for him every morning so that they could walk to the schoolhouse as a group. Is it only his paranoia working at him or does he no longer remember his sister’s smile correctly? No, impossible- at his best guess it has only been a handful of days, perhaps two weeks that he has been trapped here. There is no way he can be forgetting things already.

 

But the image that comes to mind feels wrong to Jack, distorted. The real quirk of her lips is not the way he pictures it: it is kinder, more joyous than the querulous slant he imagines.

 

This, too, is alarming. Is it the trauma of all that has occurred since his capture causing this, or perhaps something beyond his understanding?

 

Desperately he clings to these memories, from the most heartfelt moments to the nondescript events of the everyday life he no longer possesses, to the things that made him feel wonder and happiness. Even recollections of past fearful moments he treasures, for they pale in comparison to what he is experiencing now.

 

The loneliness is not unsurprising. It is worse than when he was free, _home_ : even if the others kept him at a distance, Jack still had the reliable comfort of his friends and family. When Bunnymund leaves the nest time appears to slow to a crawl; he never discloses what it is he sets out to do, but it is not hard for Jack to guess. To dream of his life before this damnable captivity would be a blessing. Vastly comforting would have been the images of his friends laughing at his stupid jokes, of his sister learning to skate over snow-powdered ice, of his mother’s rare, bright smiles when he could make her forget the misery that haunted her. How wonderful it would have felt to see even the quickest glimpses of those past occurrences!

 

But no blessing seems to even consider befalling Jack ever again. Had they ever? There is no benevolent respite from this reality.

 

Now, Jack’s dreams burn into his conscience like hot iron. He dreams of fulfillment, but in this case it is not a safe return to his family or the giving of answers he has been waiting for. It is something new and something he has seen before, but still it catches him off guard. They are common and cheap, each one regurgitating the same theme, the same noises and actions that remind Jack so callously of all the times he ever masturbated to them, to the thought of having something- _someone_ \- inside him.

 

 _Fulfillment in his dreams is a paw gripping tight at his hair, another one on his throat, his waist, around the swell of his thigh. He sits astride his buck and pants into his mouth as he rides him, gasping again and again as he fills and empties, fills and empties, the tight knot of euphoria_ _building in his belly burning ardently. The touches to his body are tender but fierce, claiming as much of him as they can and when Bunnymund moans Jack arches his back and mewls, awash in the pleasure of knowing that he is doing well, that he is satisfying his buck’s needs and he is being rewarded for it._

 

Each time, he wakes in a half-mad daze, still riding on the dream-induced shot of bliss he had felt upon knowing Bunnymund had been pleased with him. Each time, he gasps for breath and with trembling hands wipes away the cold sweat on his temple, his body still tense from the ghostly energy of fighting to be released, desperate for even a mere second alone, away from the Pooka.

 

No such thing exists anymore.

 

He is owned now, a toy for Bunnymund to bend and break as he wishes. Even now, days, perhaps weeks after Bunnymund first rutted against him, days after he took his pleasure from Jack’s mouth, Jack feels disgusting, so filthy that he wants to scratch at his skin until it has reddened and bled and peeled off completely. He does not know what he is anymore. He knows himself no longer- who was he, back in those sweeter days when he had paid little attention to the lore and the frightened whispers of attacks near the woods? Whom had he been in that time when there had not been this earthen cage around him nor this creature- this supposed buck- to mouth at him so lustily, holding him so securely? What had he been like then when he had not given more than a second thought to his marking and had looked forward to that new heat in his dreams? How could he not have put it all together?

 

Jack does not remember, and the dreams, emboldened by this, grow more relentless by the day.

 

 _Sometimes it is not even Jack in the dreams- sometimes it is other people, strangers ranging in gender and age but they all come apart the same way. Eyes blown wide open, mouths agape in never-ending screams as sharp fangs rip and tear into their flesh, as brutal paws push and pull at ribs until they crack apart and tear at vulnerable organs. These nightmares clot in Jack’s throat like dead screams; sometimes Jack is certain he spots familiar faces amongst these unfortunate corpses, people he once knew that disappeared and were never seen again. Pulses that sound like raging drums in Jack’s ears, panicked figures moving fast in the dark, away from him but they will never escape him and he can see their sins so clearly etched into their skins, the distinct stenches of gluttony and jealousy and lust_ _and greed all there, leaving delicious trails to be scented as if screaming to be found._

 

As before, the dreams are impossible to evade. There is nothing Jack can do to change the outcomes or prevent their coming: they clutch and tear into his thoughts like Bunnymund himself. As well as that, more familiar becomes the voice that instructs him directly from the sacred privacy of his own mind.

 

“Why do you scream now, pet?” Bunnymund asks him.

 

Returned from his nightly hunt, he lies on his belly beside Jack within the nest. He must have returned when Jack was still asleep, and witnessed Jack’s tossing and turning. Still drowsy and shuddering from the sickening torrent of images, Jack swallows, his cheeks prickling with heat. How weak Bunnymund must think him, frail to such stupid imaginings, torn awake by his own scream. Indeed, why does he scream now when these dreams are nothing new to him? Why are there these new elements of blood and death, that sickly glee toward the violence? The Pooka had coiled Jack tightly against him, fingers threading sweetly through his tangled hair, licking up his neck as though he thought this would soothe. “I’m here, little one. You needn’t weep.”

 

Fighting his tremors proves a losing battle. A thin wail breaks past Jack’s lips, fanning the flashed heat of his mortification. He had been trying for so long to remain calm, to try his best at being rational and obeying every command no matter how unwilling. He has always done his best to bear his burdens with steady shoulders, but now he can feel them crumbling a fraction more, some delicate part of him going loose to dust like crushed glass.

 

Part of him revels in the simplicity of giving himself to these tearful outbursts. It is all he is capable of doing, his only safe way of showing dissent. Most times it seems to endear him even more to Bunnymund, who appears to greatly enjoy Jack’s increasingly fragile state, his eyes rapt as he kisses away Jack’s tears. It does nothing to assuage Jack’s fears. All he wants is to be taken home again, to the childish notion of four walls being equivalent to safety. There is death all around him, here: he can smell it nestled deep into Bunnymund’s fur, the rusted copper scent of long dried blood embedded in the earth and traces of long lost fights clawed into the nest’s walls where chunks of dirt and root have been snapped and torn away. There is threat of his own demise whispering to him here in the shape of Bunnymund’s claws, the slits of his eyes.

 

He is so _afraid_ , he cannot contain it.

 

“Tell me why I’m here!” Jack shouts. It is difficult to discern whether it comes across more as a wit’s end plea or an angry cry- belatedly it occurs to him he is toeing the line of breaking his vow, but the grief withering in his lungs like fire-blackened paper refuses to go so long without a voice. His nails dig into Bunnymund’s arms but the fur is too thick a shield to allow him access to the flesh beneath: Jack is well aware he has no chance of causing his captor any real harm, and not for the first time he wishes he could see the unearthly creature bloody and beaten, utterly defeated or better yet dead, all breath smashed from his lungs, a danger no longer. “I’ve done what you’ve asked, I’ve behaved! You said you’d give me answers!”

 

The serenity in Bunnymund’s eyes dulls fast, whittled to sharp points. He crushes Jack onto his back with a single paw, a low grumble of impatience building in his throat. He bows his head and sinks his teeth into Jack’s shoulder- not bone-deep, not even drawing blood, but certainly meant to be a warning. Jack cries out in pain, already fighting to push him away but his hardest shove is no match for Bunnymund’s size.

 

“You think I should tell you just because you’re throwing a little tantrum, pet?” He drawls calmly, releasing his toothy clutch of Jack to lick his lips. Even with the tell of his slitted eyes he keeps himself in check, no true anger making itself known in noisy growls. He “And here I thought you were doing so well being patient for me. What’s caused this, then?”

 

He is not yet angry, but Jack can see the potential for it lingering in the corners of his eyes, waiting to be provoked. Pallid, Jack yanks at Bunnymund’s wrist, digs his fingers into the thick of his scruff to grab handfuls and pull in earnest. Is he pushing or pulling? He cannot tell.

 

“Please.” He whimpers, another hand sliding up to touch Bunnymund’s jaw. The tips of his fingers graze whiskers: Bunnymund’s lip twitches, his chin lifting, pushing into Jack’s palm to accept the uncertain caress.

 

There must be a way to appeal to his better nature- anything would be preferable to this, giving him what he wants in the form of a submissive, fragile doe. How much longer can he play the obedient mate to get what he wants when he knows there is virtually no chance of being granted his freedom? His stomach turns uneasily at the thought. His brow crumples as he lifts his gaze, the sheer size of Bunnymund effortlessly claiming his whole attention, pinning Jack to the ground with no trouble at all. He appears to be deep in thought, as well, his eyes half lidded, the velvet texture of his jaw blossoming sweet warmth in Jack’s palm. As soon as the spark of hysteria had appeared it has vanished instantly, leaving Jack lost in its wake, unsure what to say to correct the situation before it brings him harm. But he cannot think, his mind drawn blank by the emerald glow gleaming subtly within those irises, the dusky nose flattening against his hand as Bunnymund turns his head just so to nose at his fingers, watching from the corner of his eye as Jack’s mouth parts slightly but remains vacant of sound.

 

No creature so devilish as Bunnymund should have such vivid eyes. It isn’t fair.

 

Now he cannot pull away if he tried: Bunnymund’s fingers wrap around his wrist to keep it raised. His eyelids flutter as he rubs lips and nose against the delicate flesh of Jack’s wrist and hand as if drunk on some heady aroma- could it be that Jack’s own scent is so enthralling? He can scarcely consider the notion for it seems ridiculous, but he cannot tear his eyes away from the way Bunnymund breathes him in, and he cannot uncurl his fingers from where they are embedded into the creature’s pelt.

 

“Bunnymund.” He interrupts, his voice a soft, terrified croak. One green eye cracks open, the black sliver of pupil swollen wide. Jack shudders. “I need to know. Please. Tell me anything. Help me _understand_.”

 

The Buck only stares at him, the gusts of his breath pebbling Jack’s flesh when they inhale cold and exhale scorching. What does he see when he looks at Jack? How deep into him do those eyes bore that Jack cannot understand their emotion? “Is it not enough to know that you’re mine, Jack?” He inquires. “Does it mean nothing to you that in these short days alone I’ve already done more to protect and love you than your people ever did?”

 

Alarm weaves in and out of Jack’s bones like a tight sheet. It binds them together with punishing firmness, constricting more and more tightly until Jack fears he will simply snap from the pressure. The claim of protection he can agree with on the grounds that here, underground, there is no danger to him but from Bunnymund himself. But _love_? He dares not voice the bubble of scorn that rises in his throat, steeling his jaw to cage it until it falls silent as he reaches for one of his many harbored questions.

 

“You kept saying I was made.” He begins hesitantly. “What do you mean?”

 

At this the Pooka smiles, cocksure and proud as he bows his head to press into the curve of Jack’s shoulder. He lies almost entirely atop Jack now but there is no crushing weight, no horrible teeth gnawing into him just yet. The silken glide of fur traps heat between their bodies so that Jack’s body flushes from it, his traitorous lungs losing breath more quickly, his heart shuddering in delight. “You were a gift to me from the Moon himself.” Bunnymund gloats, his voice pitched to a low, sly whisper, pushing intimately into the shell of Jack’s ear so that he can hardly process the words spoken. If Jack had ever heard him speak in his dreams, would he have opened his legs more willingly? Has Bunnymund ever lured villagers into the woods with his voice alone; would Jack himself have fallen prey to the sound? “Your Moon and I have been friends longer than any on this world have lived. He knew me when I was…alive.” The throaty chuckle makes Jack flinch, hot breath licking the sensitive flesh of his throat. “He knows my tastes. Everything about you he designed to please me.”

 

The implications are ruthless, numerous. Jack can hardly decide which question to voice- mild panic thickens in his throat as he struggles to think. “But that’s impossible, that would make me-“

 

He trails off, unconvinced. Another slash at the fabric of his reality with a dull blade. Is Bunnymund toying with him solely to watch Jack’s mind tear itself to pieces? Such madness he speaks of, utterly foolish…yet as much as he wishes to Jack cannot outright dismiss the claim. The sheer pride and adoration Bunnymund exhibits to him in every touch, every obsession-fueled word…Jack had nearly mistaken it for a type of demented infatuation when it is clearly more along the lines of arrogant triumph over owning something so purportedly rare.

 

“Continue that thought.” Bunnymund commands softly. The stroke of his lips against Jack’s ear tickles. Jack cannot stand it.

 

“Stop lying to me!” He hisses, his voice a venom to match the cruel amusement in the Pooka’s eyes when he pulls away, eager to witness Jack’s rage. He must have bitten Jack’s shoulder sometime during the questioning, for Jack can feel pain prickling there, his shoulder cold both from the lack of Bunnymund’s body heat and the thin layer of saliva left from the mouth that clutched him. Indeed, he is licking his teeth as Jack kicks and fights to crawl out from underneath him. His blows land but create no difference, give him no space as he squirms pathetically. His heart thrums wretchedly within the cavity of his chest, piquing an ominous sense in Jack’s conscience that this is one of the answers he has so desperately sought, that it bears truth. But how? It makes no sense to Jack: it is too surreal, too much like something out of a story book, one of those fairy tales or fables he once read to the children when he volunteered at the schoolhouse- a wicked story for wickeder children. “This doesn’t make any sense!”’

 

“Are you still going to try denying it when you’ve had so much proof given you already?”

 

Tears spring to Jack’s eyes, raw and scathing. He wipes at them quickly, fearing impaired vision will give better opportunity to the Pooka to take advantage of him and he is right, and caught off guard, for within seconds he senses the creature moving, arms coiling around his frame to lift him from the earth. He is dropped back into the nest firmly so that the breath knocks free of his lungs: a paw flattens against the small of his back, forcing his belly to the ground. The sultry aura of their bodies pressed together is overwhelming as Bunnymund comes upon him, his muscled bulk caging Jack. Instantly, Jack realizes he is being mounted.

 

( _he was visiting a friend, and they were playing outside in the dirt behind the cabin. their mothers sat inside, sipping tea as they chatted. the two of them short and chubby cheeked, Jack seven and his friend eight, were fresh out of class, overjoyed to be away from books and learning for some time to play. they made a merry time of it, poking twigs into anthills, running around in the grass and picking up stones and watching slugs inch their way across fallen leaves. a loud scuffling sound came from nearby; jack drew up in alarm as the sound of rustling increased but his companion only shrugged, busy troweling haplessly at the terrain. "it's just the bunnies again." he had said. "dad set up a pen last week and we have a lot of 'em now."_

_curious, jack had gone to look. he loved small fauna, and was always disappointed when squirrels or small birds wanted no part of his offered morsels, not even little bits of bread torn off a freshly baked loaf. the sight of the pen delighted him, though his friend warned him not to touch, for they were nervous and might attempt to bite: several of the precious things milled about the enclosed area, noses wriggling, tiny ears twitching. jack had so longed to touch one- they looked so marvelously soft, the tiny creatures, it was a shame through and through that they were fenced off- but his attention had been caught by the continuing scuffle in the far corner, where a brown, fluffy buck cornered a gray doe near a water dish. the doe clearly wanted no part of it, but the buck never relented, inching closer and nipping at her when she tried darting away. she made a pitiful sound when he mounted her at last, squirming: she squealed and thrashed once or twice, but as the buck’s teeth sank into her fur and grazed flesh she stilled immediately, her fight subdued- )_

So too, now, he feels teeth pinching the flesh of his nape, and he squeezes his eyes shut, his lips parted in a wordless gasp. It is not the first time Bunnymund has bitten him here, but the significance of the mounting is not lost this time on Jack, who knows now why whenever those teeth grip him there he seems to freeze. Bunnymund is part rabbit himself, is he not? Humanoid as he may be, he still possesses the figure and build of one, the defining characteristics of ears, tail, and feet. There is still the massive size of him that continues to perplex Jack, the Pooka from the tip of his ears to toes larger than Jack himself and laden with fearsome might: was he of a more primitive appearance before, or was he always like this? If he is truly not of this earth then how is it that he resembles such familiar creatures?

 

More unanswered questions. He could go mad from their neglected state, but that is a matter for another time.

 

The moment those teeth pinch him Jack goes impeccably still. Is it his own instinct that compels him to freeze and cease his resistance at once, or is it fright?

 

He whimpers, remaining solidly in place even when Bunnymund unclenches his jaw to speak.

 

“How much longer do you think you can keep up this fool act?” One paw closes around Jack’s throat; he does not squeeze or crush as Jack fears, but his fingers push into Jack’s pulse point to feel his heartbeat spike as another cruel paw pushes Jack’s shirt up to expose flesh, slotting perfectly into the groove of his marking. The damned flesh sears hotly at the touch, a unique cocktail of pain and euphoria: Jack cries out from the prolonged effect of it.

 

Bunnymund drinks in the exquisite sound with narrowed eyes, his anger refusing to be appeased by even this lovely vision. How long he has waited to touch this mark and see its effect overtake Jack, how often he dreamed of licking it, nibbling, sucking, all to watch Jack thrash and mewl, sobbing from the pleasure. How greatly it pleases him to see his own print scorched onto such beautiful flesh, only to be robbed of the full enjoyment for the doe’s ignorant refusal to accept the truths. It is his own fault- if he had adhered to the plan from the beginning, Jack would not be in the least bit reluctant as he is now. There is no point lamenting wasted time now: if he must use brute force to demand what he wants from Jack, then he will do it, and he will have his results. The boy is so susceptible, so easily manipulated…this coupled with his instincts will guide him the right way, surely. Bunnymund growls, squeezing again at the branded little hip so that Jack squeals, bucking uncontrollably; this sound, too, pushes Bunnymund a step farther from his usual composure, his voice roughening to something coarser. “Gonna keep pretending you don’t dream about me, Jack? That you don’t mew my name in your sleep when you stink the most of arousal? Silly little fool you are, thinking you can hide how badly you want to be _fucked_ from me-“

 

“Stop it!” Jack pleads. The grip on his throat is not too tight but it is still difficult to speak. Tears fatten beneath his eyelids, streaming limply down his cheeks. He cannot thrash as the gray doe did, he is pinned with no possible way to escape. Bunnymund’s chest is broad and firm against his back, his hips planted firmly against Jack’s backside. Something about the careful weight of him atop Jack, rubbing slowly, makes him fight for every breath, his lungs slow to work at all. “I can’t take this anymore, just let me go, take me home-“

 

Bunnymund presses his chin to the crown of Jack’s head, grinding down firmly. “Shhh.” His voice is so low, sweet in its hungry roughness, cool like the surface of a riverside stone. “I know what you really want, pet. I can feel it screaming inside you, everything you’re hiding; you want your buck to hold you, keep you safe. And haven’t I been doing that for you? Haven’t I been giving you the attention you crave, the love you yearned for?”

 

Jack frowns, his tears forgotten.

He is not wrong. Since his capture, Bunnymund has done nothing but this, even if it is suffocating, overwhelming: he could have easily raped Jack that first night, slit his throat and bled him dry and dumped his corpse aboveground. He could have easily let Jack starve and grow filthy, but what buck would be so careless with his doe?

 

The food Bunnymund brought him hours earlier- cheeses he has never tasted before, thick, fresh loaves of bread twisted in the most fascinating manner, wonderfully seasoned meats- all of it richer than anything Jack had ever eaten, brought out carefully from the strange satchel the Pooka sometimes wore slung across his back. It wasn’t that his usual fare in Burgess was lacking in any way, but this cuisine was clearly foreign, unforgettably savory. It had been such a surprise that Jack had devoured it all without a second thought, drinking thirstily from the wooden gourd accompanying the dishes (warm, spiced cider that made him gasp, something like delight sparking in his belly). And when he had finished, how sweetly Bunnymund had hummed in satisfaction at him, wiped the corner of Jack’s mouth with a large thumb and Jack had felt that odd flash of temptation, the urge to flick out his tongue and suck the digit into his mouth, hold it there gratefully.

 

And the clothing- Bunnymund could have left him utterly without if he wished. Surely he would have gotten much of his sick pleasure from forcing Jack into constant nudity! After Jack had lost his original shirt by the riverside he had spent a handful of days bare-chested. It was lucky that the nest seemed perfectly able to sustain a comfortable enough climate that Jack did not suffer any true freezing cold (or perhaps this was because the temperatures above were not yet at the point of dropping to miserable cold), but still he shivered lightly, and it was only when Bunnymund forcibly held him that Jack found complete warmth. He had taken every chance to touch Jack’s bare flesh, the weathered pads of his paws rippling across Jack’s spine and sternum, thumbs passing slyly over the buds of his nipples, watching closely for Jack’s reactions when he demanded the Pooka cease. Eventually he returned to the nest with some stolen sets of clothing for Jack to wear, his disappointment at Jack’s eager shuttering away of his naked flesh visible in his eyes. It had been with a strange reluctance that Jack had shed his original pants, waiting for when Bunnymund had left the nest to change. Stained with dirt, semen and dried blood as they were, he could not stand to wear them any longer until he could wash them, but it felt wrong to change out of them somehow: perhaps because they were the last thing he had left of his life at home now that his shirt was gone. These strangers’ clothes were too clean, too well-made, new slates for more of him to be cut away and remolded.

 

He accepted it all with downcast eyes, feeling that if he dared look up he would find that same awful smirk Bunnymund had worn the day Jack had accepted his deal out in the woods. It was clear to Jack that Bunnymund liked having Jack depend on him for such necessities, even more that Jack could do nothing but meekly accept them. And every time Bunnymund took him to bathe, he watched with such unnecessary pride as Jack washed his clothing in the river, scrubbing out the dirt and tears with shivering pink hands.

 

There have been those terrifying moments where Jack had made the mistake of arguing, where he had fought back and Bunnymund had snarled and threatened and sliced carefully with claws and teeth until Jack had lost his anger and fallen silent, afraid. But the mounting- this was far more inexorable.

 

He denies vehemently to himself that he enjoys Bunnymund’s attentions. As much as Jack always liked to be the crowd pleaser, he had less and less often given the chance as he aged, scorned more and more openly. Had it been attention he sought, any scrap of tolerance or affection from those that were not his family? Was it merely his enjoyment of silliness and good times that made him so? He does not remember ever wanting attentions such as those Bunnymund gives him- no such tongue on his skin, no possessive paws squeezing his waist or kisses that leave him dizzy as a birthing mother. All of this: unholy, nightmare business that has no right to exist in the world the way it does.

 

That voice in his head again, mocking him- _LIES._

 

Are they truly? Whose voice is this that pretends to know him so intimately that it can discern a lie? The resounding shock of it ringing in his skull always brings with it a dull, short lasting ache, another tide of that peculiar wash across his thoughts that leaves him for a moment stricken, frowning. What had he been thinking about just now?

 

As much as Jack grasps at his memory he cannot remember at all what he had been crying about only seconds ago. All he feels are teeth, numbing him. Swallowing, he tries ducking his head very slowly, bowing toward the ground away from Bunnymund’s teeth. He is released unharmed but Bunnymund does not move off of him.

 

Silent, the Pooka waits to see what Jack will do. His breaths span the nape of Jack’s neck and shoulders, the shorter hairs on his muzzle ticklish and fuzzy on Jack’s skin. _What_ had he been thinking of before? It plagues Jack, this abrupt loss of focus. Had they been speaking? He must have done something wrong if Bunnymund was biting him so, positioned so oppressively atop him.

 

Mind drawn blank as an empty book, Jack blinks once, twice, presses his head back into the large paw that cups his jaw, into the nose snuffling at his hair. He only remembers Bunnymund’s claim of care and safety, the food he had been brought earlier- the new shirt he is wearing still, soft and clean as a prayer.

 

He supposes it would not be too abnormal to express gratitude. Even with as much as all the abuses still rankle and tear at his psyche knows it will bring him only more torment to voice his anger…if there is anything he can do that will bring Bunnymund off of him safely, it is this. And perhaps it is truly not a bad thing to thank him? For all his cruelty and unforgiveable trespasses, at least he has given Jack means of comfort, shelter and nourishment. It does not make things better, but it certainly could be worse.

 

“Thank you.” He whispers, eyelids fluttering when he feels the teeth hovering at his neck bared in a smile.

 

I I I I I I

 

The loss stays with him for days. Of this he feels he has forgotten the entire concept: what is a day when you spend most of it in isolation and darkness? What are hours or minutes when a single second seems to stretch onward for eternity?

 

There is no daylight here unless Bunnymund bids it so- a single tap of his rear paw could allow for a tunnel to open overhead and allow any outside light to stream in. It is the longest Jack has ever been deprived of any of his usual freedoms, the only constant sensory stimulations being Bunnymund, his every knowing touch forcing itself into Jack’s way of life. He can feel how they erase everything that was Jack’s life before this captivity, cruelly rewriting everything to solely _Bunnymund_.  

 

If Bunnymund is truly as old as he claims to be then Jack has some doubts that he would care about something as paltry as time, but still he wonders, deliberating on whether he should ask how much time has passed. He is torn between wanting to stay oblivious for the sake of protecting himself from more grief and knowing for certain, for the sake of settling at least this small matter in his mind.

 

Life under heavy surveillance is something he is slowly growing accustomed to: a terrible thought. There is nothing he can do to prevent Bunnymund from watching him at all times; even when he is gone Jack feels a watchful presence observing him, inescapable and ever present. It makes his skin crawl, his thoughts flitting to ghosts and haunts. How many have been killed here? Do they linger even now, witnessing the continued brutalization of another? Or is there some sort of enchantment upon this place that allows Bunnymund to continue monitoring him without being here physically?

 

His attempts at escape died out long ago. Early on into his captivity had taken every opportunity to search, steeling his nerves to creep as far into the tunnels as he could go. It left him a nervous wreck every time, waiting for Bunnymund to leave for his nightly hunts so that he may explore undetected, always uncertain how much time he had for his investigations or if he would be found out. He never accused Jack of any of it, much to Jack’s surprise, even when Jack left scatterings of upturned dirt and waited, noticeably shaken from his time wandering the maze-like tunnels, for Bunnymund to return. He did not seem to mind it that Jack was clearly repeating his attempts to find a way out. It is only now that Jack knows he was calm for his certainty that Jack would never find a way out.

 

No tunnel led to the outside Jack searched for. At no point in time did he feel like he was getting closer to an exit. All he found was the same as before: dark passages and enclosures lit gloomily by long-petaled flowers.

 

At most it was a new development. These tunnels had not been here before, though they were still not much to go by. Even with as much as his desperation begged him, he had never made it too far: everything seemed to lead back to the nest. The few tunnels that Bunnymund left open to him brought him to more enclosed hollows within the ground. He had found them to be furnished almost as any human might organize their own rooms, strangely enough: storage rooms, mostly, lined with shelves that upon closer inspection held jars of paints and inks. Wandering the neat rows with the shadows crisscrossing at his feet had been eerie; every step only heightened his trepidation, for he feared that his trespasses had been sensed and that Bunnymund lay in wait for him somewhere within the shadows, prepared to lunge and attack. He had so far not been caught in his snooping, but he did not allow that to fool him into making a mistake. He left everything untouched even if he was curious to know more: stacks of canvas and leather bound books lined many more of the shelves, bundles of paintbrushes tied securely together with twine sat patiently among the materials. It was the last thing Jack had expected to find: he had been awaiting something more morbid, perhaps bodies or bones piled carelessly, perhaps even a still living hostage. But this! He still does not know what to make of it; he has not returned to those rooms since.       

 

Regrettably, he had torn one of the pale blue blooms from its thick stalk for a reliable source of light, and though it had served well to illuminate his paths

 

_( and, perhaps, even gleamed more brightly within his terrified grasp )_

 

he had felt such an inexplicable guilt upon returning, defeated, to the nest and seeing it already wilting in his hand that he had nearly wept as he tore the petals free of the sepals, and hurried to bury the evidence in the dirt.

 

There is little to do in the nest other than sleep and dream: lying on his back, dozing, he reminds himself of little things from above. The names of flowers, identifying mental images of different types of trees and plants. In the rare moments when they are outside, freshly bathed and reclining in the grass, he tries naming the stars in the night sky as Bunnymund dozes atop him.

 

Now more than ever he is trapped with his own thoughts. It is impossible not to let them overtake him, all these worries he has harbored since that first, terrible night: how is his family? Will they come for them, do they know he is here? What chances remain of him ever leaving this place? How is it that Bunnymund claims to know the Moon?

 

Currently they sit together outdoors. It is warmer here than any other place they have visited; the twilight flecked with fireflies, the low croon of nesting birds. Bunnymund lies curled around him like a black serpent, his great head resting in Jack’s lap. The woods surrounding speak to them in low tones: the leaves rustle in the low winds, woodpeckers jolt occasionally through the silence. The trees around them knot their roots together to break the even surface of the ground: Jack watches Bunnymund’s fur ruffle in the breeze, his ears twitching and bending away from the gentle gusts. Held tightly, comfortably against the broad chest, his legs are drawn up and folded at the knees to shield his belly from inquisitive paws.

 

Even if it were cold here, Jack doubts he would feel it. Within the circle of Bunnymund’s arms he does not notice its disturbance.

 

He supposes this is another thing to be grateful for. If it were not for the Pooka’s fur, he would have long ago died from frostbite.

 

He is so lost in thought he does not hear Bunnymund speak at first; startled back to the present, Jack blinks, regaining focus. “What did you say?”

 

“They haven’t searched for you.”

 

Bunnymund speaks calmly, the pressure of his chin digging into Jack’s thighs light. “They know I have you.” He repeats, gazing out at the darkening forest as though something there calls his attention. As though he does not care that his revelation has banished the breath from Jack’s lungs. “They know I won’t let them near you. Why bother?”

 

“Do you mean my family?” Jack asks. It is too much to expect that anyone from village would care enough to come search for him- he can only presume such from his mother. “They know I’m here? They know I’m _alive_?”

 

Bunnymund does not respond, but Jack can guess at the answer. Have they really left him here to die, then, to be raped and abused and subjected to horrors he never would have thought would occur to him? Was he their idea of a sacrificial lamb to be offered up to some angry god in return for protection and mercy against his wrath? Do they actually know anything about what is happening at all, or did they just send him out into waiting arms-

 

But that can’t be right, no one sent him. He remembers that too clearly, all of this horror for a lost skate forgotten somewhere in the snow and that had been all, had it not? But that does not explain the lifelong humiliations and terrors, the way his own people ostracized and scorned him for that which he had no control over.

 

No- none of this was due to chance or misfortune. This has all been happening since his birth, since he was born with that hellish pawprint burnt into his flesh as though he were branded cattle- and perhaps probably even years before then, before Jack himself came into existence. None of it should make sense, but his marking, the dreams, the voice in his head…everything is beginning to pull together and Jack can feel himself succumbing to it all against his will.

 

He cannot fathom what he will do when all of this is proven real ( _because deep down he knows it is, somehow, a cord of truth rigid in his gut, deep in the marrow of his bones, in the pull he feels toward the dark creature thrumming along his veins mixed with his blood, resonating in his dreams like the longest echoing whisper. he is running out of **TIME**_ ).

 

“You’re lying.” Jack whispers, but the dip in his brow tells of worry, an anxiety behind his lids that stacks like layers of tears. He says it because he must: he must acknowledge that it is not true, that he does not believe it, but since that day at the river- that first day he was caught and remembered all those dark, telling dreams, there has been doubt sewn into his mind like the most delicate embroidery. Surely they must have tried? Sometimes there were search parties for the missing. Surely they miss him enough to go looking- they cannot just leave him out here without any kind of remorse. Who would be capable of this? “They wouldn’t just leave me here. They wouldn’t do that to me.”

 

Bunnymund chuckles, but it is not a sound of amusement. It is a dry, sardonic thing, ill disguising his derision. “Think, Jack.” He snaps, shifting upright to take Jack’s hand. His thumb strokes over a pale pink palm, as if Jack is a naïve child who must be made to understand. “You’ve seen all the signs- the way they treated you, sought to avoid and turn you away at any moment. The way they feared you. Everything they knew, everything in that stupid book, they knew before you did. They knew of your birth and creation, that you would be mine and that they must lie to you. They are divided, you see- some wished to deliver you to me, to please me. Others sought to keep you from my reach.”

 

He kisses Jack, slow. His tongue in Jack’s mouth is almost familiar now, no longer as intrusive as it once was. Jack does not kiss him back, but he opens his mouth to the Pooka obediently, closing his eyes and letting the sensation of those odd lips rock him like another tide. When they separate, Bunnymund licks his lips to snap the threads of saliva that stretch between them.

 

“And they never breathed a word of it to you.” His jaw flexes, a growl building in his throat. “They thought it best to keep you a blind, frail thing and deny you your birthright.”

 

Jack reels, his eyes watering. He attempts to twist away, craning his neck for a moment to close his eyes and summon any dregs of calm left within him but Bunnymund will not allow it- he rumbles impatiently, crushing their mouths together firmly. When they break apart again Jack is further lost; he tries to speak but nothing comes out. His throat feels as though it has dried out completely, and as if he senses this Bunnymund kisses him again and again, swallowing and licking until Jack, overtaken by the liquid slide of Bunnymund’s hypnotic advances: it is the only action he can muster, perhaps enacted by his hunt for words. His mouth moves to form speech, perhaps protest, and instead he finds himself matching Bunnymund’s movements, his lips rasping against long teeth and short, bristled fur.

 

Once it is started he cannot find a way to end it. Bunnymund encases him within those solid arms, the pressure of each paw caressing upon his spine and shoulders loving. His touch is so gentle, his fingers stroking so sweetly into Jack’s hair that it is almost possible for Jack then to forget he has killed so many. How cruel that it is such a quick, simple thing to forget the Pooka’s heinous acts when he is being so affectionate, his offered comfort beautiful and protective. He digs his nails into the crests of Bunnymund’s shoulders, struggling for breath, and the creature allows him finally to pull away, licking his lips.

 

“Why?” Jack whimpers.

 

How much of this were they able to divine, he wonders? He remembers the times he had seen the priest and his mother glance at each other the day he had gone bolting from the chapel, how the priest had always seemed to be around when Jack was having his most peculiar moments of odd behavior. All of them conspiring against him- his mother, the clergy, the village people, the great Father himself! What of his sister? Did she know of all this? And his father? Why couldn’t they have told him?

 

What ruins Jack most is the thought of his little sister, playful and innocent little child that she is, knowing of his doom and never telling him anything at all. Did his mother clue her in to what Jack’s future held, or had she kept the youngest Overland oblivious as well? Anger flares suddenly in his chest; the crackle of betrayal looms larger yet, overtaking his indignation with swift, staggering ease, slicing and peeling away at his hurting heart like the sharpest knife.

 

Somewhere amidst that, his heart breaks.

 

Perhaps his mind does as well, for it is with clarity that Jack shoves aside all fear and trepidation. He allows Bunnymund to nose and kiss at his neck, to hold and comfort him, for if he does not then who will? It is a sick manner of thinking, he knows, possibly a misguided, useless attempt at retribution or a wild grasp for whatever sympathy he can find. But is he not justified? He has been abandoned by everyone he thought cared for- and who is he to doubt Bunnymund’s words when Jack himself has known all along, when years beforehand he could sense that same unwilling isolation from those he knew. Bunnymund may have hurt him before, coerced him into doing such shameful things and drawn blood from his skin, but here is a side of him that knows tenderness when Jack truly needs it. Certainly he is a terrible thing, malicious and selfish, but who is to say he will be that way all the time? Does a buck not care and provide for his doe, always?

 

Because he is so in need of some sort of stability, it does not bother Jack that he is clutching at Bunnymund. His cheek presses into the broad chest, wonderfully solid, wetting thick fur with his tears. He curls into a tight ball as though this alone will guard him from everything, but the powerful arms around him only squeeze tighter, assuring him silently that Bunnymund senses his need. The Pooka shushes him, caressing his hair once more, trailing his tongue to Jack’s cheeks to taste away the salt tears. It does well to quiet the pangs of hurt emanating from Jack’s heart to a whispering sob, its panicked beats settling.

 

Like this, it is easy to excuse the way Jack ceases crying when he grasps at Bunnymund’s scruff, letting the plush pelt glide between his fingers, letting the answer purr reverberate to his chest.

 

And when Bunnymund nuzzles into his neck, crooning softly to him, Jack mirrors the action, sniffling and whimpering like an abandoned kit.

 

“Because they thought they could own you, and make you their weapon.” Bunnymund replies to him, and the whisper of fury Jack hears in his voice carries in the cold wind, scattering across the treetops. He laughs, this time merrily, crowding Jack closer to him to hiss into his ear. “Do you see where they made their mistake?”

 

His tongue razes Jack again. The blazing heat of it makes Jack’s flesh feel burnt and raw.

 

Yes. He does.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: [Houses- Carrion](https://youtu.be/EgdEa2rbIEQ)


	9. the somnambulist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many years ago, Bunnymund saw a tidal wave wash ashore a small island and drown several hundred people. It overtook them like ants in a thunderstorm, drowning out all life within its reach and drowning everything in its watery flush. In this same manner, Bunnymund feels adoration for his doe flood over him, overpowering his self-control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for rape, gore, and somnophilia. This chapter is a direct continuation of chapter eight- takes place in the same night.

 

_“Jack, you shouldn’t!”_

 

_The voice rings subtly in the otherwise quiet night. Distantly there are the sounds of footsteps on the gravel path, a fire crackling, the muted sounds of cookware clanging as an evening meal is prepared. There is no wind; the night is still enough for every sound to carry._

 

_The trio freezes for a moment, listening, watching for signs of any alarmed or curious intruders on their nightly fun. They are lucky tonight: if they were heard, no one seems to care enough to come fish them from the dark. Jack is smirking as he turns to grin at his companion, though the dregs of momentary panic linger in his eyes, clutching his lungs so that even though they had not been running he finds himself a bit void of breath. “Don’t shout, stupid, we’ll get caught.”_

 

_Jeremy comes into view from behind them at a brisk jog; he had stooped to gather something off the ground. He eyes his friends warily, a wordless agreement of Jack’s caution, before turning his gaze to their grouped feet. Jack is the only one barefoot: an unsavory habit, in his opinion, but there is no convincing his friend otherwise. “He’s right.” He bobs his head at Jack. “Come out of there, idiot. You shouldn’t.”_

 

_In the daylight, standing where Jack is now would not be such an issue. It is a particularly pretty stretch of the woods in the daytime, the ground here so largely untrodden that the grass grows thick as a braid, the endless green span of it soft beneath his heels, softening to fuzzy moss on the tree trunks. They have stolen away here to nap after class dozens of times, and never found any danger awaiting them._

 

_Tonight, as with every night, it is different. It is only because there have been no bodies found recently that there is no curfew to restrict them to their bedrooms. Far too many times they have been caught attempting to sneak past the patrols for a midnight picnic or stroll, so much so that they have become regulars in the chapel at these ungodly hours, locked in to serve their penitence._

 

_Jack stands in the divide between wood and forest where it is clearest, the grass to one side visibly darker even in the dim light. The wildness of the darker side is immediately apparent: much less light travels through the tree’s canopies there, and the ground is rough and broken terrain, for the trees’ roots lie crusted and twisted like ropes aboveground. When he peers into the inky void, he sees only the sickly pulses of fireflies: one tiny flash and then they are gone, only to reappear elsewhere, and vanish again. It is a marvelous, marvelous thrill to stand here on the precipice of the supposed Pooka’s territory. The adrenaline courses icily in his veins, cloaking him from the warm night. If he were alone, he would not even once have considered standing here for such a cheap thrill, but with his friends here it is easy to allow cocky stupidity to guide him. There will be no bloody hand or paw darting from the darkness to snatch him when there are witnesses._

 

_“No fun in that.” He replies, feigning nonchalance._

 

_His heart quivers uncertainly for him. Yes, the presence of his classmates is reassuring, but still the doubt tugs at him. There have been as many as eight dead found together, a slaughter he is sure no one in the village has ever forgotten. He himself was twelve at the time of their discovery, and still he remembers it vividly. What would stop such a mad thing from the brutalization of a meager three?_

 

_It is such a stupid, stupid thing to do, standing here and laughing danger in the face. It is worse yet to scoff at the ‘silliness’ of it when his own father was found violently mauled not three years into Jack’s infancy. He nearly steps away, then, back to safety in the softer, prettier grass with his companions, but something keeps him anchored there, drifting into thought._

 

_He does not think of his father often these days. Jack remembers little of him, and knows only what his mother will tell him when she does not react negatively to any mention of him. There is a grave to visit, but it is a shoddy, godless thing, set apart only by the name engraved on the flat stone at its head, grouped miserably along with the graves of all other known and unidentified victims. He visits once a year; his mother visits at least thrice a week._

 

_Another memory: he had wondered aloud, once, if the strange print on his hip was a result of an attack. If the Pooka had made an attempt on Jack’s life, as well, and if the marking was the resulting scar. Did others bear the mark? Was it something to condemn those who knew loss because of the creature?_

 

_His mother had screamed at him to be silent._

 

( he should have known right that instant. what a fool he was, and still is )

 

_The fireflies flicker to one side of him, fluttering lazily in the muggy air. Their presence is notably limited to the forbidden side of the forest where the stranger things dwell; if Jack had turned at that moment and looked over his shoulder, he would have noticed the twin green sparks that winked vividly, simultaneously into view, and then vanished. Perhaps, even, he might have heard the whisper of wind that accompanied their exit._

 

_“Jack, seriously.”_

 

_This time the warning is less conspicuous; the note of irritation is what slides Jack abruptly from his tangent. Christopher crosses his arms, annoyed now with Jack’s bravado. He is uneasy here, and rightly so. “Let’s go.”_

 

_“Don’t tell me you’re afraid some big old bunny’s going to come eat you.” Jack teases, though he acquiesces and begins to wander to set his friend at ease. He toes the line still, however, prickly, sharper grass beneath one foot, dewy_ _and supple blades beneath the other._

 

_Christopher snorts. He and Jeremy amble closer to Jack but keep closer to where the moonlight still reaches. “And you’re not?”_

 

_“Like hell he isn’t. He’s just playing tough.” The third companion, Jeremy, snickers._

 

_Jack scowls. “I’m not.” He declares, bending to snatch a pebble and toss it at the others. He understands their fears, but for them to let it ruin the tail end of such an enjoyable night irks him. They had such fun earlier, racing along the stream to see who was fastest, dipping their toes in the water to cool off. He beat them both in the race, winning a turn at the wagon Jeremy built together with his father; he plans to take Michaela for a ride past the cemetery, perhaps even to town if his mother will allow it. The night is good and they are young, what point is there to being afraid? There should be no silly Pooka to worry about, not when there is more laughter to be had and when he has a chance at, for once in his life, leaving the boundaries of the miserable little village. “That stuff doesn’t scare me.”_

 

_( but his dreams do. the ones where paws grip him the ones where he is raped and gagged with thick fingers and he bites down and tastes blood but it is his own and why him? why him? )_

 

_“Oh, it doesn’t? That’s fine. Take a run through the woods then, I dare you.” Christopher tosses the pebble back at him, laughing when it glances off Jack’s shoulder.._

 

_Another run? Jack smiles wide, already knowing he will win. He is faster than them both even barefoot. Shrugging, he stretches briefly, readying for the sprint. A glance over his shoulder invites his friends to line up beside him for the race to begin, but they only stand there, watching._

 

 _“Alone.” Christopher clarifies, lifting his chin to gesture at the blackness behind Jack. “And in_ there _. If you’re so brave.”_

 

_Oh._

 

_A chill slings nimbly up Jack’s spine, coating his shoulders in icy regret and making him shiver. It is regrettably noticeable: his friends snigger and nudge each other, and Jack’s smile falters, sliding back to a scowl. He turns his back_ _to them to eye the trees._

 

_Here where they stand now is where the last sliver of moonlight touches them. To go further in would mean to run blind but for the pathetic light given by the fireflies, and even their pretty little dances in the heavy air fails to offer Jack any comfort._

 

_He is not afraid. He is not._

 

_“Okay.” He does his best to sound flippant, though a plea for them to follow lingers on his lips. “Meet me at the market?”_

 

_They nod, and before Jack can give in to the urge to flee he forces himself forward, and into the trees._

 

_It is summer._

 

_The night is pleasant. He abandoned his socks and shoes at his bedside early this morning; the grass is slippery beneath him, soft in its odd, rubbery way. He does not dare step too far in: this thin line where he walks is good enough, near enough to where the moon’s fingers still reach and the trees grow as they should with their roots mostly unseen. Now and then the wan light is able to struggle through the massive treetops and speckle Jack’s skin for one blessed moment, making him shimmer as he moves._

 

_None of this makes him feel any safer._

 

_“This was a bad idea.” He mumbles to himself, almost sullenly. He knows he is supposed to be running but for some reason cannot bring himself to comply._

 

 _He knows someone –_ he _– will hear it._

 

_Jack sucks in a long breath and counts each step as he walks, taking care to feel his way out before him, treading lightly over stones and fallen branches, shuddering when his soles come in contact with the rough texture of tree roots, the long limbs extending as high as his waist over the grass. None of this should scare him. He has lived near the forest all his life, played and bathed and wept in its waters since birth. He should be comfortable here, practically in his own backyard._

 

_But he does not- far from it._

 

_He worries his lip between his teeth as he walks on. Every creak of natural debris and crinkle of brushed foliage makes him flinch. Fireflies bob in and out of his path; now and then, one will bumble straight into him, and the tiny scritch of delicate wings against his skin makes him twitch, grimacing._

 

_It feels too late to run now. The suddenness of the noise would surely attract unwanted visitors. He will tell his friends that he was too tired to run. That sounds much more daring, anyhow, he promises himself as he feels his way around a wide trunk, careful not to scatter loose bits of bark. It will cost him, certainly: Christopher and Jeremy will tease for days and he will be stuck out here longer than he’d intended, stupidly picking his way through the eerie dark, but they ought to at least be begrudgingly impressed._

 

_His attempts at keeping his mind blank as he walks fail. Thoughts come unbidden, forcing themselves into his immediate focus._

 

_This morning, Jack had woken in tears._

 

_A heartbreak far too vivid had weighed upon him as he sat up in bed, touching fingers to his mouth in confusion. His face was freshly wet, his cheeks cool in the morning air. He remembered a sweet warmth about his shoulders, pressed against his spine._

 

_He remembered a kiss, and felt achingly empty at the absence of the heat that had never really been there at all._

 

_It had been one of a handful of times he had not woken with a mess of sweat and semen in his sheets or the beginnings of one tenting them._

 

_What could they mean, these dreams with fur and black and dirt? Was it premonition? Did it mean he was going to die as his father did, somewhere in this very forest? Subject to some type of assault, pinned by paws and- -_

 

_His brow furrows, uncertain._

 

_He had never been killed in any of those dreams. The absurdity of it! All that violence and not a single death. He has only ever dreamt of- his cheeks flush at the wrongness of it all, thinking of these treacherous things out in the open air- of pure obscenities in the form of crude molestations, rapes and pure, animalistic lust that left him voiceless, his throat raw._

 

( sometimes he screamed and wailed as he was bitten and fucked, begging help and mercy as loudly as his lungs would allow him, as teeth clamped around his nipples and tugged.  his body was always left inexplicably left bruised and battered come morning as if he had done the damage to himself- gone were the days of him wearing short sleeves or unbuttoned collars. he always fought, pushing and kicking for a window of opportunity to seize and slip away, but it was never enough, never got him so much as an inch of space and never kept the attacks from happening. it was all inevitable. sometimes he even bled, and woke with it dappled on his thighs, staining his bedsheets so that he huddled in the kitchen at early hours, rushing to wash it out in a panic, his eyes brimming with tears.

 

other times, jack wants it.

 

this is what frightens him most.

 

in these instances, he whines for even a small touch, rolling willingly onto his belly to spread his thighs wide for the creature to settle between and mewls as he is entered. the tongue that tastes him is sweet, and the teeth that follow sweeter still; when whiskers tickle at the insides of his thighs he shrieks in delight, wriggling to meet the hungry muzzle. he is in these situations undeniably a whore, wanton and desperate: he moans and clutches greedy handfuls of fur (fur! an **animal**!) and thick muscle, tugging sharply, impatient for a harder, faster fuck. he lies splayed open in the soft earth and lets himself be contained, remaining silent and biting back his tears for even the smallest chance that he will get a kiss, shuttering his pained screams away if it means he will get his fucking )

 

_Jack frowns down at his feet; a gentle wave of dizziness halts his progress, the disorientation making his knees wobble. Why is he thinking of this now? He cannot be considering all this vile business now. He should be hurrying to meet his friends and find safety back home. He should be going to the priest, confessing of his sinful blasphemies and begging forgiveness of the holy spirit._

 

_But then someone would know of his nasty secret, and Jack wants this least of all. He does not want the odd looks at him to increase, nor does he want the villagers who look at him so to gain another reason for doing it. It is as if they are already aware of the sleazy contents of his dreams._

 

_The simplest explanation he can think of is that it is merely his libido frothing at the mouth to be sated. He is virgin still, lacking even kissing experience- surely this is the reason for his subconcious’s focus on sex?_

 

_He has tried reassuring himself again and again that it will pass. Jack tries to convince himself of it even now as he walks on- he goes beyond that for the sake of reminding himself that he is silly to feel like he is being watched. He tells himself the Pooka, however convincing all those mutilated bodies may be (it must be bears, surely, particularly aggressive ones) is not real, for how can such a terrible thing truly exist in this world, this divine creation of God?_

 

_It would have been a more compelling argument if he had not used it a thousand times before, and if he had more faith._

 

_It is difficult to hold onto such a thing when for years he has felt himself slipping from some kind of reality he had not known to be in possession of. It is more difficult to believe that he is blessed and looked after when he fears stepping outside every morning, for then he feels that unfailingly present prickle of awareness that tells him he is being watched. Because he has far too many times seen the priest call his mother in for a meeting when he knows for a fact that they speak of him and his increasing outbursts._

 

_A stream burbles nearby; Jack looks up with a start. He has not been keeping track of his progress. He is nearly to the market now._

 

_There is the sound of a heavy foot touching the ground mere yards behind him._

 

_The most terrible thing happens then: the hairs on Jack’s nape and on his arms stand on edge, his muscles contract sharply, cramping suddenly in fear. He manages to bottle his scream in his throat as he turns, whipping round with his eyes wide, but even before he had begun to turn he feels a strong gust of wind and a scratch at the ground, and he knows by the time he is face to face with plain, empty darkness that whatever it was behind him has vanished._

 

_The bushes and sloping branches nearby rustle softly, their quiet rest disturbed by a speedy escape._

 

_A word snags in Jack’s mind but he does not care to process it._

 

_It is not until he has scrambled to a run for the market, tripping twice over lazy tree roots and scuffing his cheek as he stumbles clumsily into a tree that he allows himself to consider the word, but by then he has spotted his friends awaiting him on the wooden benches and it is put out of his mind for wild relief._

 

_“Made it!” He crows, falsely bright and triumphant. He is out of breath and pale but they seem not to think much of it. They roll their eyes at his stubbornness but clap him on the back in earnest, congratulating him with fondness._

 

_“Lucky you made it back when you did, too.” Christopher tells him as they make their way back to the schoolyard at last. There, they will sit in the false safety of the tall wooden fence and share the bread and jelly they hid away behind the bushes before parting ways back home. “Jeremy said he saw something moving after you.”_

 

_The claim makes Jack misstep, stumbling slightly and knocking into the pair of them. Jeremy swears under his breath, shoving at Jack with a laugh. They take delight in these little rebellions of impropriety, these awful, meaningless little words their mothers warn them not to use. They’re growing boys, nearly men now, tall and filling out in some places and drawing back in others, round boyish cheeks disappearing to be replaced with harder jawlines. They take notice of girls, now, and work carefully to hide away their discoveries of things like lust and kissing- or at least they do, for Jack has not experienced such._

 

_He thinks of the thing that evaded him in the forest. How long had it been following him? Had Jack discovering it been a mistake, or had it made that sound purposely to let its presence be known as Jack’s trek came to a close?_

 

_Jack winces. Even for him, the joke is too uncanny, especially after what just occurred. He licks jam from his palm, flecking crumbs into the dirt. “Ha.” He deadpans, but his friends turn somber, Jeremy motioning for them to settle into the grass, setting aside his toast to speak in a hushed whisper._

 

_“It was dark. You know. Maybe it was nothing. Could’ve been the fireflies, now that I think of it.” He shrugs, but there is hesitance in the slant of his mouth, a brave attempt at hiding his remembered inquietude. “It looked like eyes. Kind of lit up, though. And green.”_

 

_“Must have been the fireflies.” Jack replies weakly. He is glad he already finished his snack, for anxiety curls now like a cold fist in his belly._

 

 _The word he’d thought of when he had heard something behind him, he realizes, was ‘_ buck _.’_

I I I I I I

 

Patiently, Bunnymund watches Jack fall asleep, threading soothing fingers through his downy tufts of unkempt hair.

 

The nest is musical in its silence, and ethereal: only he is privy to the thin, lilting chime of the glowing blooms, the slow creaks of life growing around them within the sloped earthen walls, rustling privately in his ears, whispering _we are given new life._

 

In time Jack himself will learn to hear these earthly ruminations.

 

He strokes the back of his finger against a youthful cheek, watching the delicate eyelids twitch, the long lashes fluttering. He does not wake, however, allowing Bunnymund to continue his indulgent caresses. Every chance he gets to touch Jack he takes without hesitation, no matter how much it angers or frightens him. He is Jack’s buck- no matter the protests, no matter the pleas, he possesses every right to touch and use Jack as he wishes- but still, it is such a delicious thing to have his fill when Jack is least aware. Here, now, with the doe firmly set to sleeping, Bunnymund can taste and feel of him what he wishes without struggle- and how prettily Jack stirs and sighs in reaction!

 

Stretched out on his side, he holds the boy tightly to his chest like always. There is nothing he enjoys more than feeling the lithe, slender body pressed flat against him. Every subtle shift and twitch ripples gently against him; he is so close that once or twice when he yawns or murmurs in his dreams it is akin to a kiss into Bunnymund’s throat, where his gentle head lies nestled against the crook of Bunnymund’s broad shoulder.

 

Nothing is more enthralling than this, feeling those dreamy breaths gusting softly against his fur, the usually tense, resistant body pliant within his arms. They have slept in this manner since the first night: he refuses to let Jack sleep away from him no matter how much he pleads for privacy and space. Though he knows there is no possible way Jack could escape his grip, he knows he can squash that ever present urge the boy harbors for escape by forcing their continued close contact.

 

He will not have his doe leave him.

 

Jack dreams of the nest, as usual. Bunnymund knows it as certainly as he knows that miles above them out in the open, it is midday, a cold and bleak day typical of a Burgess winter. He knows Jack is dreaming of them lying together in the dirt, mating with a frenzy he hopes Jack will learn to match when lucid.

 

_( always, he knows of Jack’s dreams. it is nearly instinct to him now, to peer into them and observe the workings of Jack’s subconscious. he has done it for centuries: he is so well versed with the way Jack thinks he hardly has need to walk about his dreams any longer, but it is inescapable habit. )_

 

He continues his slow rubbing of Jack’s erection, thumbing the elegant line of it through his leather pants. For the past half-hour he has been teasing the sleeping doe, keeping his touch light enough to agonize, but not satisfy. Jack whimpers, repeating an unconscious attempt to shift away from the press of Bunnymund’s muzzle at his cheek. He is too deeply asleep to know what is happening, but even there he can sense that he is somewhere he does not wish to be. His brows narrow down onto his closed eyelids in a subtle frown, lips twitching unhappily.

 

Carefully Bunnymund tucks Jack’s head beneath his chin, purring contently as he scents his doe, pressing his chin down hard and rubbing in tight circles until Jack releases a tiny whine of pain. He stirs half-heartedly before nestling deeper into Bunnymund’s embrace, his freckled little nose tickling against the Pooka’s fur.

 

Many years ago, Bunnymund witnessed a tidal wave wash ashore as small island and drown several hundreds. It overtook them like ants caught in a thunderstorm’s flood, and drowned out all life within reach of its watery flush.

 

In this same manner, Bunnymund feels his adoration for his doe crest upon him, overpowering his self-control.

 

Helpless to such naïve, pathetic fragility, he undresses Jack with gentle fingers, prying the tight material of his pants from his hips. The milky flesh that comes bare is relentlessly enticing, the flare of bare hips and long legs shapely and pleasing. His cock is a lovely thing, flushed pink and of moderate size; he is woefully smaller than Bunnymund, but that is to be expected.

 

He glows in the watery sheen of the illuminated blooms: so pale, so still, he appears as if underwater, Bunnymund’s overlapping shadows crisscrossing neatly across his form. Bunnymund lowers him to rest upon the earth, pausing a moment to take in the sight of him. For his kind, for his age, Jack is tall, but he is tiny in comparison to his buck. Bunnymund lowers his head to lap at a thigh; the streaks of saliva he leaves behind glimmer in the blue light, markers of where he has been. He paints his tongue upwards, following the bumps of rib to nuzzle at Jack’s breast, rubbing his cheek against the nipples. It is tempting to suckle, to scrape with his teeth and nibble and chew until the delicate buds are puffy from his ardor, but he will leave that for another time. If he is not careful, he will wake Jack and ruin the night’s fun.

 

Jack does not stir as his thighs are enclosed within hefty paws and lifted, spread wide apart for full view. Bunnymund draws in a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring at the sight of Jack so bluntly exposed, the sight deliciously lewd and sweetened with his lack of awareness. How many years did he spend spying on this unaware creature, starving for glimpses like this? Pert, round buttocks beg for a squeeze from his paw. The sac twitches idly, swollen; the dainty pucker of his cunt is deceptively innocent, rosy and unperturbed as if Bunnymund has not thoroughly abused it dozens of times before.

 

Already turgid, his cock jerks impatiently, his groin drawn tight. If only Jack were awake- he truly does enjoy seeing the awe and fear that glistens in those wide eyes whenever Jack sees the size of him.

 

He does not need to voice a command for the restraints to come into place. The roots listen and obey without pause, breaking quietly from the black earth in their hypnotic, snakelike manner, coiling like vines around Jack’s ankles to aid in positioning him. They tether the doe by the ankles so that his knees are bent, and squeeze close around his waist, roping his wrists overhead so that if he wakes he will not be able to move. A small mound of shed fur and dried grass cushions below Jack’s hips, ensuring comfort and leverage to allow for Bunnymund to lean in and nose at the naked flesh.

 

He nibbles the thighs, reveling in the buttery yield of plump flesh beneath his teeth. A graze here and there of his paw to the underside of Jack’s cock does wonders; Jack keens low in his throat, hips pitching forward in clumsy reaction, hindered due to the roots’ grasp.

 

Keeping himself in check is a constant battle. The animal urge to simply abandon all genteel caution and mate his doe with all the fierceness his blood calls for nearly overwhelms him, but Bunnymund manages to remain patient, thorough in his administrations. With his tongue he traces around Jack’s anus, licking until his saliva coats it and Jack is whimpering more consistently, bone and muscle rolling beneath white flesh as he writhes. Applying pressure with the tip of his tongue makes Jack buck harder still, fingers flexing and curling in broken motions; when Bunnymund pushes with more insistence and gains entry into his starry opening, Jack curls off the ground, mewling something unintelligible, bony knees clamping together as if this will block off all intrusions. The reaction only emboldens Bunnymund’s lust, his tongue now squeezed by the flutter and cramp of Jack’s walls. His ears perk attentively as Jack’s previously soundless sleep is suddenly dotted with mews of confusion, uncontrolled little gasps that make his abdomen quake, the breaths hitching dry in his throat. His anus clenches and flits open on Bunnymund’s tongue: Bunnymund presses his advantage, lapping hungrily at the trembling cunt as he stretches his jaw to unfold the length of his tongue inside Jack.

 

He tastes pure, lacking the filthy imprint of any other who would dare disregard Bunnymund’s claim upon him. This does not surprise Bunnymund: for years he dedicated himself to making sure Jack remained his- _whole_ , untouched. There were some attempts, of course, for who could resist such unnatural beauty in such a waifish frame, those large, overly trusting eyes? He met each attempt with righteous violence, ensuring there were none to tempt his doe away from him. No one had been allowed to succeed in their pursuit of Jack’s affection. He was untainted by outsider hands, just as Bunnymund desired him. None but himself were worthy of touching his doe.

 

Jack himself had been aware of this, his virginal aura. He did not seem particularly embarrassed of his inexperience in physical intimacy, but Bunnymund was unfailingly vigilant, taking note of the way Jack responded when his friends all seemed to partake constantly in these pleasures, shrouded in irreverent, joyful secrecy for it was forbidden to do so outside the bonds of marriage. He had listened and played along when his male companions bragged of touching breasts of their desired females, kissing them in the secrecy of the farmhouse rafters, shyly changing the topics whenever he could.                                               

 

Though it is not Jack’s fault, it irritates Bunnymund that he should have to use saliva for lubrication when Jack’s own body should be able to produce its own slick. This is what he was made for, to love and be made love to- had things been different, had his people chosen not to omit the truth from him, Jack would have known that there was nothing to fear in the madness of his nightly lusts, and that his constant longing to please and make content those who harbored ill will against him stemmed not only from the need to be accepted, but from his need and instinct to serve a mate- his destined buck. He would have known that his supposed ‘nightmares’ in which he was ravaged were a result of absent heats struggling to impose themselves on his body as any young doe would experience.

 

Perhaps if his people had chosen to reveal all to him, he might have known all of the strange symptoms he had endured over the years- the nightmares, the flashes of dizziness, the constant call to the wild that seemed to have him edging as if in a trance to the woods where Bunnymund lay in wait- all of these were merely the effects of his prolonged deprivation of his buck, his mind and body suffering as one in Bunnymund’s absence.

 

It is not that he does not enjoy it, this act of feasting on the doe’s cunt, fucking him slowly with his tongue to prepare him, ensure he is good and wet for the bulk of Bunnymund’s cock. No, he has always enjoyed this, feeling the clutch of Jack’s tight body wriggling around him, thighs spasming, squeezing around Bunnymund’s head as they jerk in reaction as his tongue strobes in and out just a little faster, a little harder. But Jack being what he is, it should be his body’s first and natural response to produce its own slick, just as that of a Pookan doe. More than anything it is Bunnymund’s own fault: in allowing Jack to be kept away from him since birth, the doe is likely unused to his body’s reactions and chemistry in the presence of his buck. He is unused to the pheromones’ effect on him.

 

( the voice, in his ears, softly: _it will take time. you cannot induce the changes. let him adapt to you, let him learn what he was made to be._ )

 

The smack of his lips on wet flesh is noisy in the quiet. Jack’s breaths ring in between the pauses, shivery little moans that lapse back into nothing as he resumes his peaceful slumber. He is more than well prepared now, the glide of Bunnymund’s tongue within him easy and languid, dripping saliva thickly onto fur and flesh alike. It is not yet enough: Bunnymund plans for a long night.

 

He pulls back to admire his work, smearing fingers into the warm, gently cooling mess to ensure the spread is even. Some of this he brings back to palm himself with, pumping his engorged length with a low grunt; he mixes in a palmful of a nearby flower’s oily sheen, its consistency similar to his saliva. The slick stuff is fabricated by the blooms themselves

 

_( lasting and only remnants of a world long gone, another gift from the Moon )_

 

to keep their petals dewy and responsive to the light their dusky petals educe, allowing for a better distribution of light. He hisses as he coats himself in it, bidding the roots to prepare Jack once more. They pull Jack into position once more, moving him delicately but firmly back into place. It is the most breathtaking vision, him angelic and docile in the low light, his lips parted a fraction, belly flat and bare. Again, Bunnymund is helpless to the urge to lick at Jack’s anus once more, dipping his long tongue once, twice, three times inside to taste and caress, bringing Jack to life again with tiny pants for breath. He shifts, moving to hunch over his doe’s sleeping form, one paw between them as he slots himself into place, guiding the sticky bulb of his glans to probe and glide against the smear of wetness coating Jack’s skin, rubbing slyly against Jack’s entrance. This time Jack shows more signs of waking, lips parting an inch further in a soundless gasp, a sharp breath jumping between his ribs.

 

When Bunnymund pushes in he cries out weakly, jolting against Bunnymund. His hands jump to Bunnymund’s chest as if to beat at his breast, and fall limply, slowly again to his sides. His brow screws tight in pain, his mouth curled in a grimace: he is _tight_ , so unbearably tight even with Bunnymund’s preparations. He is snug around Bunnymund, blessedly hot- he is so amazingly fitted to Bunnymund that it makes his mind unhinge almost completely, leaving frayed threads and disorder where his organized thoughts once held true. Taking white hips into his dark paws, Bunnymund pulls Jack closer, intentionally yanking so that the doe sinks further along the thick line of his cock with a soft cry. He snaps his hips forward, forcing deeper entry, and Jack mewls at the contact, whimpering pitifully as he is impaled. His pink little cock bobs and perks against his heaving belly, oozing thin streams of semen.

 

He looks so delectably vulnerable, so utterly claimed that Bunnymund loses himself immediately in the silken bliss of him. He curls possessively over his doe, panting as he works into him, thrusting further, further in and grinding his hips to slide home, snarling when he manages to bury himself to the hilt, feeling the catch of Jack’s rim gripping his length. He quickly abandons the moderate rhythm, his thrusts more akin to sharp jabs of his hips against Jack’s so that the pretty mouth falls open, pink tongue glistening, drowsy eyes fluttering as Jack pants for breath. A thick line of saliva dribbles past his lips and onto his cheek; Bunnymund licks it away, grunting appreciatively as he clutches a fistful of brown hair, tugging so that Jack’s throat is stretched out plainly before him. There he suckles a series of harsh welts, nipping to break skin so that Jack releases a tiny wail with each incision; he pulls away with his teeth bloody, darting to catch the neglected nipples in their eager grasp.

 

It is just enough to sate his urge for something wilder. Later he will have the time and the freedom to bite and bleed, pound and scratch and pull. That is better saved for when Jack is awake and delirious with refusal.

 

He is huge inside Jack: he can feel how he is rubbing him raw from the inside out, filling out into his belly from the sheer size of him. If Jack were awake to witness it he would surely scream in terror. Bunnymund ruts into him hungrily, drinking in every sound, his paws endlessly roaming, holding for the mere victory of being able to hold at last: he squeezes a hip, flattens his palm atop Jack’s sternum to feel him breathe, cups a small shoulder to feel it shake; Jack is weak to it all, unable to withstand the relentless assault. It is a miracle he does not rip himself free of the tranced sleep with the severity of his scream- he jolts uncontrollably, his tiny cunt contracting around Bunnymund as Jack orgasms without warning, nails digging deep into the Pooka’s skin as he grunts, clawing for something on which to anchor himself. His seed spatters between their bellies, smearing into his flesh and Bunnymund’s fur as the Pooka moves inside him, coaxing him with gentle murmurs, stroking calmly at his cock to keep Jack in the jittery clutch of the aftershocks. Oversensitive, the doe convulses in anguish.

 

The flush high on his cheek lingers, the wrinkle of his devastated brow persistent as though even in those unknowable depths he knows he does not want this.

 

Beautiful, all of it. The sight of him ruined and ashen amongst the flowers is eternal- Bunnymund knows he will think of it every time he closes his eyes henceforth. “That’s it my love, embrace it.” More seed sputters from Jack’s cock, a weak little spitting that tugs forth an agonized cry. He slows his pumping even as his thrusting quickens, the fire in his belly longing to devour and match Jack’s. It takes little more effort: he comes suddenly and viciously as Jack did, growling so that gooseflesh prickles Jack’s arms, his heartbeat audibly spiking once more. Embedded deep in his doe, Bunnymund grinds roughly against him to ensure a flawless breeding, though it is far too heavy a spill for Jack’s small body to contain: he watches, panting as his seed overflows, seeping in a steady stream past the tight lip of Jack’s cunt.

 

Jack lies in complete silence now, lost to the world. Bunnymund has his pockmarked friend to thank for this- he is motionless but for a minute shift here and there, squirming slightly in useless attempts to press his knees together, no doubt sensing the heat of Bunnymund’s release within himself. Bunnymund quells his stirring with a purr, repositioning so he lies on his side, tugging the limp form into his arms. The precious thing only sighs quietly; his cock lies flaccid between his thighs, long sated.

 

He busies himself with licking away the pretty splatter of semen on Jack’s belly, and sometime during this feels Bunnymund realizes his cock has softened and slipped back into its sheath, wonderfully satisfied: a rare occurrence. More often than not he will go for several rounds, fueled by his nigh insatiable lust and remarkable stamina.

 

Of course only his doe would be able to satisfy him with a single fucking, he thinks, smirking, between licks. How appropriate.

 

I I I I I I

 

As he hunts, he thinks of his doe.

 

His paws are heavy on the rain-wet ground, tired. It took great effort to leave Jack’s side and exit the nest. He could have laid there for weeks more and been content to simply watch and doze as Jack slept, but in spite of his fatigue he feels a ripple of pleasure thrumming in the marrow of his bones, lining every sinew and vein and demanding he rid himself of the excess energy in any way possible. The earth yields to his touch, hungrily drinking from his joy: where the grass should be its brittle, woeful winter hue, it livens where he steps, brightening, and grows back lush. Underground he can hear the reawakening of the roots as they curl into themselves like a dying spider’s legs.

 

The night is cool with a hint of mist. With such thick fur he can scarcely feel it: it is nothing but a bothersome tickle on his nose and on the backs and insides of his ears. But he must hurry, he reminds himself calmly as he journeys onward. If he is gone too long the doe will grow cold in the nest and wake alone. Normally this would not be such a pressing matter, but with the longevity of tonight’s trance and the pain he will no doubt feel after Bunnymund’s actions, it would not be wise to let him suffer the aftereffects alone.

 

Because he cannot decide where to go, he calls forth a tunnel and lets it take him wherever it deems worthy to open. The running does not help to take the edge off his nerves, but it is as exhilarating as always feeling the drumming beat of his own blood coursing through his veins, claws raking the ground with thunderous glee. He is black fur on black tunnel, streaked with the green glints of his eyes in the light provided by the chiming blooms. His ears flatten against his skull, his lungs expanding pleasurably with each breath, breathing harshly for the sake of it. Each breath is savored, sucked in through widened nostrils for the whipping wind snapping and breaking against his shoulders.

 

_(  once, he did not breathe, and the wretchedness of it still haunts him. )_

 

When he surfaces he is in another continent entirely; the air stinks of an oceanic tang, but the winds that whip through his pelt are balmy and gracious. The sky hovers darkly overhead, the paling hue hinting to daylight’s slow passing. The moon must hang fresh overhead the nest and the village where Jack once resided, then. Cruelly, it gives him much amusement to think that Jack still harbors hope of returning to that cesspit of lies and malice. He is aware by now of the injustices done him, even if he lacks true detail, and yet he is still homesick for the misery of it.

 

Poor, gullible thing. Bunnymund does not ever intend on returning him.

 

He hides in the darkness and listens, strolling aimlessly across fields of wheat. It is beautiful here, in spite of the darkness shrouding much of the landscape; he ponders on bringing Jack here, farther away than the doe would have ever imagined he could get from his village. Would that frighten or please him? It does not matter, for a climate as exquisite as this one could do wonders for his temperament, perhaps even trigger some pleasing side effects. It is a most tempting idea, not only for his own love of warmer climates: he has seen Jack suffering in the true clutch of an outstandingly cruel summer, lounging almost lifelessly in whatever patch of shade he could find and hoping for any merciful breeze. He was beautiful in his lethargy, lolling against the grass struggling not to do anything at all, his skin glossy and clothing loose and dampened, limp along the supple line of his frame with perspiration.

 

His ears pick up on voices miles off, but suddenly the insistent adrenaline that had rushed him earlier feels quiet, distracted. It allows him a more controlled pace, more time to observe and assess the details his sensitive hearing brings: a heartbeat, quiet breaths.

 

To hear a heart is to hear a soul, exuberant with life and studded through with secrecy. The breathing in this calm is horrendously loud in his ears, irritating him. The footsteps slowly grow closer; he creeps toward the wanderer in turn, scenting the wind. A female, her anxious sweat tainting the air.

 

Slinking forward into the trees, he passes stealthily across a small stream, the only noise he makes stemming from the rustling of the tall stalks of wheat as they bend and sway in his wake. The closer he comes the more knowledge he is able to glean: the woman is alone, her stride brisk. She does not belong out in this night: she thinks herself safe, and this too amuses Bunnymund.

 

He stills when she passes close, senses prickling to highest alertness, and leaps when her back is turned to him. He slams a paw squarely between her shoulder blades and dashes her forward to the ground. He lands gracefully as her head cracks loudly against the ground. Her skull is broken instantly; he can smell the ripeness of her blood, the scent of her innards slowly leaking out from the fracture as she attempts to recover, her throat raw with a scream no one will hear. The rupture in her scalp erupts to a bloody mess without pause, so that when he hauls her up, readjusting so that she lies on her back, her eyes are drenched in blood.

 

Dizzily she attempts to speak, blinded and terrified. His paws on her are clue enough: babbling, the woman’s eyes flicker rapidly, her mouth gaping. It is remarkable the blow did not knock her straight to death. It almost irritates Bunnymund that these people cling so greedily to life when they deserve it least.

 

He dislikes speaking their tongue, having visited this little corner of the world so infrequently that he has never taken much care to truly devote himself to learning it or the alphabet- but when he opens his mouth to snarl at her with her native language she pales, and he basks in it like always. They never expect it when he speaks. He so rarely does.

 

 _“Be silent.”_   He snarls, pinning her beneath him with ease. She is too dazed to move, even when he snaps her wrists with twin pops. Another scream, more needless violence: a thinly controlled rage has come into him, remnants of a skin he shed centuries ago. It happens less now, that this ghostly fury comes upon him without provocation. He has made much progress in abandoning it, forgetting it altogether, but it returns to him like a recurring sickness, unwilling to part from him.

 

He thinks of Jack as he takes her into his paws, comparing. There is little similar between them except for their youth: she is older by a handful of years, but before he sprang upon her she carried that same pretty spark of liveliness in her eye. Jack always carried that light in his gaze, as well, before the constant criticisms and neglect from his community began to erode its presence to a thin sliver.

 

The woman screams as he drags a claw up through the fabric of her dress, slitting it down the middle so it falls open, the flimsy remains tattering beneath her frame like a rag. Her breasts are heavy, the nipples wide and brown. Nothing like his doe, but beautiful still, and a worthy body to inflict the true strength of his desires upon. Truthfully he is astonished that he was able to repress his more violent, crazed urges hours before as he mated his doe in his sleep. It would have been so easy, so rewarding to give into his lusts and fuck as he yearns to: how beautiful it would have been to hear the endless screams drip from Jack’s throat, to milk himself for hours in the tight clutch of his perfect cunt!

 

She begs when he threatens the life of her child, irritated by her screaming. She attempts to fight back, to hit him, but the concussion is taking slow effect and her useless hands only bring her more pain when she forgets, attempting to beat back at him.  Her voice rapidly weakens: she is dying actively, and there is no medicine, no procedure advanced enough in this time to save her from the gaping wound in the back of her skull.

 

Her heart beats weakly, pitifully asking mercy, and he ignores it too.

 

What drew him to her? The jealousy, a common cause. He could hear it in the unsettled shudder of her heart: a conflict he did not care to investigate into but it permeated within her, sickly, damaging. Its fingerprint upon any soul recognizable, familiar. He knows the emotion well- how many years did he resent every fool that could so freely keep company with his doe while he, the buck, could not? How blind with rage did he become every time he took note of a possible suitor aiming for Jack’s affections? He reaches between her legs to get her wet and she attempts to twist away, weeping. _“I’ll never do it again. I won’t disturb you again, please-“_

 

It is not good with her. Such is the case with most of his victims. This he understands to be an effect of Jack’s arrival: now that he has his doe, his truest mate, there is no need for another. None will satisfy Bunnymund such as Jack does, he who was made specifically for this. But it is too early yet to return to the nest and give Jack the fullest of his attentions, to overwhelm and exhaust him as he longs to. Others will have to take the brunt of that damage for him until Jack is ready for it, otherwise Bunnymund risks setting back their progress with irreversible trauma. He gives her what he must wait to give Jack, breaking flesh with his teeth, pounding into her at full speed as he wishes to use on Jack, pushing in as deep as her body will let him and she gags and chokes from the pain of it, crushing her breasts in his palms.

 

His climax is meager, rushed. Annoyed, he pulls free of her and slicers her open at the neck, sinking his claws down to her hips to cut open. She dies from the bloodloss, silent and gray, but Bunnymund continues: he puts his paws into her to grasp smooth bone and pulls, grunting as her ribs crack apart. He tosses the useless bones away, reaching further to sort out the mess within. The gore does not faze him, nor the stench of meat spoiling: he has seen and done far worse. It takes some work to remove the heart entirely, intact.

 

It is slippery in his hand, rubbery and wet. It kicks out a few last beats as he palms it, feeling for the life to drain. A good squeeze drenches his paw in more blood, rendering the thing squashed and crudely misshapen. Bunnymund stares at it for a minute or so, rubbing his fingers across its surface. He has done this far too many times to be curious what a heart looks like, to care about doing it at all, but when the silly villagers took to spreading rumors of him doing this exact thing he found it so humorous he decided to comply, leaving corpses behind with their bellies opened, their hearts torn free.

 

He cannot help wondering after the appearance of Jack’s heart. He is nowhere near as human as he thinks he is, the clueless little thing. Surely he has always been somewhat aware of his differences, even if, in physical terms, they are subtle, well hidden. Now it must be more apparent to him than ever, even if he is somewhat slow to glean the information Bunnymund offers him. He is made of cosmic energies entirely, utterly remarkable, the only one of his kind.

 

In this, he matches his buck most of all. For Jack, at least it is on sweeter terms.

 

There is so much complexity to Jack’s being that it still stuns Bunnymund. Even now, years after the deciding of Jack’s every trait, there is still much that he does not know and is left for him to discover. Would his heart be as white as his skin? Does it glimmer such as his eyes do, or is it as translucent as the thoughts in his head? Impossible, he knows, but for all the lust and greed he knows Jack is capable of showing, there is still such remarkable innocence, such willingness to suffer in the place of others that they might live. He has never seen anything like it.

 

Were Jack only some simple fool, some stupid conquest to be killed afterwards, Bunnymund would have immediately cut him open and taken delight in seeing him from the inside out.

 

But he could not do that to his doe, not even when he protests and misbehaves so. He can condition Jack to obey. He can make the boy see his way with proper guidance. Even so, he can already see his plan working. He has seen the rabbit-fast shifts of thought in Jack’s demeanor, sensed and smelled the flashes of (however brief) of arousal that he experiences.

 

Jackson Overland is already halfway into Bunnymund’s palm. He only needs a few final pushes.

 


	10. Lamb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dread slices into his bones; suddenly he is overwhelmed with the urge to apologize. He wants to show Bunnymund how earnest he is, prove he wants forgiveness. He cannot take another punishment, not from his buck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are curious to know more about Caught, I am going to be doing a little series of FAQ on my tumblr, and [this](http://killianjoenss.tumblr.com/post/68196528837/caught-faq-part-1) is the first part.

In sleep, a child's voice reverberates like a prayer in his head, a memory successfully struggled past the confines of his fear. It is not an unfamiliar voice: it is something he has heard before, months ago when things had been normal (or as normal as they could be when he was suffering such vivid dreams).

 

Lately, that is all he dreams when there are not visions of crude intercourse threatening to drown him. He remembers small snippets of things, voices and things he ate and the way his favorite sweater felt on his arms: little things that he misses. But these words he remembers, they were part of where he is now, words he had been too blind to read into.

 

_'Breed him with blinders and guide him false, so that he might be returned perfect as he was made.'_

 

Startled **,** Jack sits up, blinking sleep from his eyes and feeling the almost sweaty imprint of fur on his cheek. His eyes are tired and bleary; dark night around them does nothing to help his weak vision. Squinting, Jack looks around to realize he fell asleep pressed tight into Bunnymund's chest; the arms around him still there, guarding him.

 

Jack frowns, and tries moving his legs a little. He is surprised to have woken so... dry. In his dreams (such _shameful_ things), he'd been lying on his back, open and begging for more as Bunnymund had filled him with wet, spilling heavy semen into him and onto his thighs. Like always, it had felt so distractingly _real_.

 

They are outside, and the thought relieves and frightens him. He wonders if Bunnymund brought him up here while he was asleep and tries remembering what they'd been doing before he'd nodded off, but the memories actively evade him.

 

He much prefers the guaranteed safety of the nest to the outdoors' unpredictability. At least underground he knows it is just he and the Pooka there, just them two and the glowing flowers and dark walls of dirt. He had always been warned against being in the woods so late: even now, after long weeks of captivity, he feels that sense of foreboding tapping gently on his shoulder, reminding him that he should not be here. There are dangers he has been warned of, haunts lurking behind trees.

 

_( but what creature would be stupid enough to try and attack the Pooka, much less his doe? )_

 

“Sleep well?” Bunnymund asks.

 

He sounds awake, untainted by sleep's groggy prints. Jack has never seen him sleep more than a handful of hours, and almost always only in the mornings. He is a nocturnal creature, not fully limited to the dark but preferring to keep within it.

 

_In his dreams, he feared the dark only because it meant unknown touches, an invisible predator's tongue feasting on his skin like it had been starved for centuries._

 

_Once, Jack had woken to find himself standing uncertainly on the backstep of his mother's cabin, one foot reaching out before him, stock still but aiming to carry him into the woods beyond the fence, undaunted by his current state. His heart thrummed contently in his chest, singing out delicately for something he felt was home, something that was not this pathetic village, not in this cabin._

 

_Confused, he'd pulled up his foot and closed the door behind him as he went inside, halting when he encountered his mother sitting at the kitchen table. Her eyes looked haunted._

 

_She insisted she had not woken him because her mother had always told her it was bad luck to wake a sleepwalker._

 

_But they both knew this was the first time Jack had ever sleepwalked. And as his mother had tucked him back into bed, Jack had been acutely aware of the way she avoided his gaze, and he had known that she had lied to him._

 

“They lied to me.” He whispers, and he knows it to be true now, real as the beating of his own heart.

 

“What else?” Bunnymund prompts.

 

It is hard, so hard to think back; Jack's eyes water slightly as he remembers as much as he can, thinks back to every odd occurrence that had ever left him feeling unaware, unsure, uninformed. The whispers his friends had shared sometimes when he had fallen too far behind and the way they immediately fell silent as he approached, the priest's foreboding glances, his mother's constantly watering eyes, the villagers that peered uncertainly out at him through grimy cabin windows as he walked by.

 

It makes so much sense, now.

 

He swallows with difficulty. His legs are numb; he has been curled against this creature for far too long. He longs to stand and stretch but he knows Bunnymund won't allow it.

 

“They were afraid of me.” He cannot help looking up at Bunnymund, mostly because if he looks up it will keep his tears away. A fixed gaze means no blurry vision, no wetness on his cheeks. “Even my _mother_.”

 

“Especially your mother.” Bunnymund confirms gravely. The fur of his neck is comforting, rich and thick and dark as night and when he puts his hand against it, it looks white as a rain-hoarding sky, the veins pushing up gently to notify him of their presence. “She was chosen for her remarkable lack of strength.”

 

Jack is drawn with startling speed into a memory.

 

“ _Get away from me!” The girl, Anne, squeals. She tears away from Jack as if he were holding a bloody carcass in his hands instead of a harmless bird egg he found in the forest._

 

_Her reaction should not bother him, but it does. As far back as he can remember he has been confronted with such situations: people turning quickly away from him, pretending as if he were not speaking to them or flinching when he touched them. Anne in particular had always been blatant in her dislike of him, and Jack had never been able to figure out why. He had pulled a few harmless tricks, tossed a few aimless jokes, all in the hopes that she would warm to him, be a friend. But nothing had ever worked._

 

 _She hadn't been the only one, either. There had been others, so many others... Trevor, Matthew, Harriet and Boyd,_ _other_ _nameless villagers that never responded to his polite hellos, fathers and mothers and older siblings of his classmates that turned hastily away from his beseeching eyes. All keeping their distance from him._

 

 _Oh, it bothered him so much more than he could have ever guessed._ _The nights before the nightmares began, before he was too preoccupied with his blistering fears to think, he stayed up and thought back as far as he could, going over each interaction he'd had with any of them. What had he done wrong? Had he been accidentally rude?_

 

 _Confusion bleeds into Jack like a slow rain. He struggles to keep his expression light, but his enthusiastic smile has fallen. “Anne, it's just_ _a robin's egg_ _!” He says, and frowns, hurt, when she turns her back on him pointedl_ _y. He falters, looking down at the delicate little thing in his hand. “I just wanted to-”_

 

 _A_ _friend shoots Jack a pitying look, going to Anne's side to try and convince her to calm down, or to be friendly, but the discussion turns heated._ _It ends with her bursting out in annoyance, and the remark haunts Jack for years afterward._

 

“ _I_ _won't_ _talk to him! My parents told me not to!”_

 

 _And as she'd stormed off, Jack had turned helplessly to face the other way. He walked towards the woods again (it was still early, he had time) with the intention of returning the egg to the nest he found in the morning, hating that he_ _felt ignored, unwanted._

 

_On his way into the trees, he passed by his cabin and his mother standing out on the front steps, staring at him and what had happened with a sad, resigned expression of her own._

 

_He does not ever remember a time where she stepped in to help him or confront his fearful peers._

 

Is that what it is, Jack wonders? A lack of strength- is that what kept his mother from telling him of his future, from trying to protect him at all? If she had protested or fought, would he still be here now?

 

It is a stupid question: Jack knows in an instant that he would. He has seen Bunnymund's tunnels, witnessed firsthand his tracking prowess and the unimaginable speed. There is no place he could have ever been hidden that Bunnymund would not find him.

 

Or was it simply that she had not cared?

 

A scream starts in his throat and dies before it reaches his tongue, queerly cut off by something he cannot name. “She was chosen to birth me? By the Moon?”

 

“Yes.”

 

His whole life, then, really has been scripted. He was born to a designated, _weak_ woman, one who could not have possibly been bothered to even try to protect her son.

 

It is all too overwhelming; disgusted with his mother, with himself and with everything, Jack fails to suffocate the panicked sound that rises in his throat and bursts from his lips like a gasp.

 

Why did no one try to protect him? Had they all really disliked Jack so much that they decided to leave him grasping at straws, second-guessing himself always and oblivious to the dangers that awaited him while they all watched? Had he been some sick form of entertainment?

 

“I hate you.” He blurts, and he does not care that Bunnymund's grip on his waist has tightened. His lungs feel like they're shrinking and expanding too quickly, leaving him short of breath and dizzy to the point that he begins to sweat. “You ruined my life- everything, _everything_ would have been different if you didn't exist! You _shouldn't_ exis-”

 

Bunnymund strikes him hard across the face, too fast for Jack to comprehend what is happening.

 

He cries out, loudly, and falls backwards onto his elbows, hand flying immediately up to his cheek. It stings sharper than any blow he has ever felt; his mind swims precariously, set into a blank slot yet again.

 

It is too dark to see anything but the vicious green of Bunnymund's eyes; they glow weirdly in the dark, like the flowers that light his nest. Immediately, Jack knows he has made a mistake.

 

“I'm sorry.” He bleats, an abused lamb pleading for redemption. He is confused, he does not know what he wants, what he is or where he belongs. Afraid of a beating, he cowers, lifting an arm as though that will shield any blows. “Bunnymund, I'm sorry-”

 

“If you didn't make such a darling little doe I'd gut you right there in the grass.” Comes the Pooka's voice, sharp-edged as a piece of glass. He approaches Jack on his hind legs, looking tall and powerful over Jack from where he is sprawled in the grass, immobile. “Manny be damned, I like an obedient doe. I said that before- remember, pet?”

 

He moves slowly to his knees, straddling Jack and pinning him without effort to the bristly ground. They are close enough for their breaths to mingle now, Bunnymund's nose touching Jack's. “What was it you swore to me you'd do?”

 

“Behave,” Jack whispers, bottom lip trembling despite his struggles to keep still. For once, the voice inside him is silent.

 

“That's right.” Bunnymund says. He drags a paw down Jack's front, tugs his shirt roughly up his hips and poises a sharp claw over the delicate skin of his left nipple. “And that's not what you're doing now, is it?”

 

“No.” Jack answers, meekly. Try as he might he cannot shy away from the creature atop him, nor can he evade the angry gaze. “I'm sorry.”

 

“You're not sorry, Jack.” Bunnymund says, and his voice is terrifyingly soft. “You're lying to your buck.”

 

He lifts himself off Jack to maneuver him harshly onto his belly, earning him a punishing mouthful of dirt. “What good is a doe that doesn't respect his buck?”

 

There is a telltale rustling in the ground below him; tree roots break through the crusted earth, twining gently around Jack's neck. He whimpers and tries moving away; he knows what is going to happen next.

 

Courage finds its way to Jack, sucking down into his lungs like cold air. “How can I respect you?” He asks. He does not raise his voice. “I hardly know who or _what_ you are. You kidnapped me and threatened to kill my family.”

 

“Your family doesn't matter now, Jack.” Bunnymund says harshly. He dips his claw into Jack's hip, and Jack shrieks into the dirt, shivering as the blood wells down onto his side and wets his shirt. It is not much, but it is painful. “What matters is that you've broken the oath you made, and that you're angering your buck.”

 

“You're a lunatic!” Jack rasps, and is punished with the removal of his pants. They are torn from his legs so brutally he yelps in pain, squirming when he feels claws slice into the fabric and tear it away to leave him exposed. Bunnymund rubs against him, cock hard and sliding against Jack's skin eagerly, dipping between his buttocks. A thumb follows after, pushing past to press interestedly somewhere that makes Jack yell and buck instinctively, anus clenching in terror.

 

God, _no_. Not this.

 

“You're an abomination! Get off of me!”

 

“Shut up.” Bunnymund hisses, placing a paw on the nape of Jack's neck and shoving him harder into the ground. Jack twists and jerks in his hold, squirming until his face isn't in the grass, until he can breathe and spit dirt out of his mouth. “ _Shut up_.”

 

“No! Get off me- get off!” Jack shouts. He can't do this again, he doesn't want to feel the slide of fur against him or the tight clutch of clawed paws anywhere on his body-

 

there is a brief disconnect in his mind:

 

_he wants to worship those paws, drag his tongue over the claws that taste like blood and the paw-pads that are rougher than tree-bark and yet when they are on his skin, when he is being good they are soft as the kiss of water on an open palm._

 

“In due time, you're going to learn to take your buck's cock like a good doe.” Bunnymund snarls into his ear. He squeezes Jack's rear hard enough to bruise, lets his claws get one last good pierce into him before he retracts them.

 

“ _I'm not your doe_!” Jack screams.

 

His exclamation echoes in the area around them; Bunnymund's ears twitch away from the sound, sensitive to higher pitched noises.

 

He feels Bunnymund's rage before he hears it. Teeth clench painfully into his neck, and Jack sucks in a ragged gasp of pain, thrashing against his bonds.

 

“Like it or not, pretty pet, you've been mine since day one.” The Pooka says coldly. “You were made to be mine. I couldn't make it any clearer if I branded you- but wait, I _have_.”

 

Jack knows he means the pawprint. He can feel it burning on his skin now, evidence, that inexcusable brand.

 

He is owned; a toy for a delirious creature. A weak, helpless doe to a blood-hungry, powerful buck.

 

“I _hate_ you.” He sobs.

 

The teeth on his neck have not gone deep, but he knows with absolute certainty that Bunnymund is dangerously close to snapping his jaw shut, severing Jack's neck in two. Somehow, Bunnymund manages to speak around his mouthful of Jack.

 

“You _hate_ me? Do you realize how much I've been holding back?” He hisses into Jack's skin, cock hard against the cleft of his ass. “Five weeks and I've not touched you more than I know you can take. _Five weeks_ I've been forcing myself to keep from being too brutal, forcing myself not to spread you wide and fuck you until you're _screaming_ because I wanted to see if you'd submit to me on your own. You should be _thanking_ me.”

 

He unclenches his jaw slowly, rubbing his nose along the bloody side of Jack's neck and taking in deep pulls of his scent, his breaths swiping at Jack's hair. “I could have killed you by now. I could've killed your family, wrecked your village and torn every single one of your so called friends apart. I could have had you begging, offering yourself up to me again and again every night.”

 

There shouldn't be such heat flushing up Jack's neck, spreading to his cheeks and making him falter. He should not be remembering those intense, heated dreams, the way he had felt like hopeless, fragile prey to a fierce, exciting predator and how the fear fueled something in him, something he thought he'd buried way deep down.

 

He shouldn't find excitement in being prey.

 

“Bunny.” Jack whispers. Dread slices into his bones; suddenly he is overwhelmed with the urge to apologize. He wants to show Bunnymund how earnest he is, prove he wants forgiveness. He cannot take another punishment, not from his buck.

 

Even breathed out low his voice sounds hoarse, strained. “I didn't mean to.”

 

“You're lying again.”

 

Bunnymund is grappling with Jack's thighs now, forcing them apart and running enormous paws over his buttocks, squeezing and groping possessively. The touches are perfectly reminiscent of Jack's dreams: in waves he remembers a paw on his cheek, a furry finger forcing itself into him, claws tangling into his hair and scratching in warning at his scalp whenever he protested or cried.

 

It occurs to Jack (and it comes to him like a random thought, like he is at home in his room sleeping and suddenly he wakes to remember that he has forgotten to close his window) that all this time, he has tried running, escaping, but never seeking help. But where would he even manage that?

 

He tries to imagine himself running wild-eyed back to his village, to his mother or the priest and asking for sanctuary, for someone to help him. Would they do it? Or would they smell the Pooka on him, see his bruises and the bites and blood staining his once-pure skin and turn him away?

 

If he cried out for help, would anyone respond? Is there anyone out in the woods who can help him?

 

“I'm not!” Jack cries, but it is too late.

 

He hears Bunnymund spit onto something, and then there is a wet digit pressing at his exposed anus, claw thankfully gone.

 

Jack jolts away from the offending finger, trembling wildly. His body is tight, tense with refusal. “Please! I take it all back, please!”

 

The finger pushes in and he chokes on his words, discomfort taking hold of his throat.

 

“The more you fight the more it'll hurt you.” Bunnymund warns him, voice heavy with something Jack wishes he didn't recognize. “Stay still and relax or I'll make sure to bleed you.”

 

Jack goes still instantly, dry-heaving as another finger pushes mercilessly into him.

 

This is the first time there has ever been something like this inside him. He knows what comes next and he cannot possibly fathom what it will feel like, cannot imagine it fitting. He is going to be torn apart from the inside, used like a filthy rag and tossed aside when it is all finished.

 

Jack closes his eyes and begins to pray for salvation as the fingers work at him.

 

He does not care if it is some kind of blasphemy to ask his so-called Lord and Savior for help when there is a cock pressed hungrily against him, when lewd images are vividly flashing past his closed eyelids and when his own cock is stirring sleepily between his thighs, spurred into interest by the hard grind of Bunnymund's groin against him.

 

He wants to be freed of this mess. He wants to be anywhere but here.

 

_he wants to suck that cock again and feel it batter his throat. he wants to get fucked, needs his buck deep inside him-_

 

Flinching, Jack tries devoting himself to prayer, murmuring hasty, high-pitched pleas into the dirt below him. Before he can try to resist, there is a _third_ finger pushing at his widened hole, and he screams.

 

_You know you want this, Jack. You like how he feels against you, the size of his cock and the way he fills you so completely, something before you've only felt in dreams. Why deny yourself your reality, Jack? He loves you. He wants you for his own._

 

“How does it feel, Jack?”

 

Jack whimpers; he cannot get away for the life of him, cannot successfully ignore the heat of fur all around him nor the way Bunnymund's third finger dips just into him, not wholly inside but teasing through.

 

Whiskery lips suck brutally at his neck, sharp teeth chipping at his skin like it's dried paint. “How does it feel to be so helpless to your buck?”

 

“Please stop,” Jack breathes, scrunching his eyes shut. “Bunny, please-”

 

The fingers inside him go still, pausing their stroking. He whimpers when Bunnymund's nose traces along his neck and shoulder, when that arousal-roughened voice grates erotically into his ear. “Apologize.”

 

The possibility of forgiveness blinds Jack like he has seen the sun after months underground. Desperation fills him to the brim and spills urgently over; Jack allows the bites to his shoulder, the licks to his tear-wetted cheeks and the strokes to his nipples. He will take it all if it means he is redeemed.

 

“I'm sorry.” He bleats again, body shaking hard enough to gently slide him back onto Bunnymund's fingers, making his breath hitch. “I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry, I'm-”

 

“Shh.”

 

There is a shifting of worlds and Jack is on his back now, staring up at his buck, intruding fingers blessedly removed. Bunnymund's eyes glint sweetly at him in the darkness, nose twitching busily as he leans down to kiss Jack.

 

Hesitantly, Jack moves his lips, but the movements are mechanical and inexperienced. He stops and lets himself be kissed instead, feeling as his lips grow swollen and bruised from the attention.

 

“I forgive you, Jack.” Bunnymund tells him, nuzzling at his doe's neck. “I'll have to do something about your outburst, of course, but you're forgiven for now.”

 

And Jack, who does not know what this means other than he is safe for now, nods and mumbles out a small 'thank you,' and turns up his jaw so that his buck may lick at his throat.

 

I I I I I I

 

“ _You're afraid of something, Jack.”_

 

_Jack looks down at his sister, startled at her words. “What?”_

 

“ _You're afraid.” She says, looking back up at him, young eyes clear with their attentiveness. “I can see it. You haven't been the same in a while.”_

 

“ _It's nothing.” Jack reassures her, ruffling her long hair. She is a miniature version of their mother, though happier about the lips where on their mother there are lines of unease. “Don't worry about it.”_

 

“ _You can tell me, you know.” His sister says, giving Jack a knowing look. “I won't tell anyone.”_

 

_Jack swallows, tears swimming momentarily in his eyes before he blinks them away. She has always been so perceptive to his moods. No one can read him better. But he couldn't pass on his own frights to her. Never._

 

_He will just have to lie._

 

“ _Promise not to tell mom? Or anyone else?”_

 

_She nods, but Jack still feels trapped, caught in between the bright bliss of seeking help and the fear of being judged and shunned._

 

“ _I haven't been feeling like myself lately.” He says, hoping to high heaven he does not sound despondent. “Just..been having some weird dreams. That's all.”_

 

_The youngest Overland purses her lips, wondering if she should tell her brother what she knows. She wonders if she should tell him of the times she has woken to her mother's weeping (she sleeps in the same room as her mother, sharing the bed the father she never knew once slept in- Jack's had his own room since she can remember), or of the times her mother told her to cover her ears with her hands and go to sleep, never mind the sounds coming from what seemed like outside._

 

_She wonders if those noises were the Pooka. It does make sense, if she puts it all together: her mother always seemed most fearful at night. The way her hands trembled when she shuttered the windows, blew out the candles and wrapped herself in blankets, the way she pretended not to cry so that she would not worry her children._

 

_Everyone is scared of the Pooka, she knows. But their mother... the merest mention of the creature has her going ashen. Maybe Jack is the same, but he hides it better._

 

“ _About the Pooka?” She asks._

 

_Jack sucks in a sharp breath, tries passing it off as a sneeze. “Uh- no?”_

 

_His sister smiles, patting his hand. “It's okay, Jack. Everyone's scared of him. It's not a bad thing you have to hide.”_

 

_You have no idea what I'm hiding, Jack thinks, and says “I guess not.”_

 

I I I I I I

 

“Do you love me, Jack?”

 

Jack cannot figure out what to say. He opens his mouth and there are two very different, very obvious answers on his tongue, each one ready at an instant to fly out and seal his fate. He tries to swallow them back but Bunnymund's tongue comes sweeping back into his mouth and he is left wordless, breathlessly silenced.

 

Blinking back his confusion, Jack feels that voice come up again.

 

_You love him. Tell him you do._

 

_Tell him you're his doe, **only** his._

 

It is tempting; it seems the natural thing to do, the only profitable course of action. Of course he will tell Bunnymund he loves him. What doe does not love his buck?

 

Jack puts up his hands blindly, sucks in a breath in a short reprieve from the kiss as Bunnymund pulls away to growl into his cheek. His hands touch at the roots of Bunnymund's long ears, and the Pooka shudders mightily, eyes sliding closed in pleasure as Jack's fingers curl around the stalks of fur and flesh.

 

“Tell me.” He whispers.

 

His ears are so soft; they twitch as Jack holds them, tall beautiful things he wants to lick and kiss. His buck is such a beautiful creature: Jack feels muscles ripple and shift under that heavy fur, looks up to note the way those intelligent green eyes stare at him greedily.

 

Such green, green eyes.

 

“I...” Jack says, and then his mind splits painfully in two, and he screams.

 


	11. Purification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blinking water from his eyes, Jack lies very still; he can feel something pulsing in his chest, each throb of it growing heavier and heavier. It leadens his limbs, leaves him heavy in the Pooka's arms. His marking tingles oddly on his hip. Jack knows he can no longer deny its existence. He was born damned and branded, his buck's paw-print blazed onto his skin like a proclamation unto the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a direct continuation of the previous.

 Jack's scream charges the air around them.

 

It leaves the eerie forest fraught with his echoes, and Jack is sure that in the silence afterward every tree has gone silent to listen. He twists onto his side and Bunnymund lets go of him, watching silently as Jack retches acidic bile into the grass and weeps, terrorized by the way his mind has suddenly gone flatline-numb, shocked into confusion and blankness by a blunt strike of outsourced agony.

 

Pain throbs in his temple like a flashing light: it waxes and wanes in its intensity, leaving him a shivering mess, pawing at his head and sniffling in misery.

 

A gentle paw strokes his hair, but it hurts and it _shouldn't_ , it's only a simple touch and there are no claws digging into his scalp. But when Bunnymund's fingers graze Jack's skin even the slightest, he cries out in anguish. His skin goes scorching hot, his body temperature spiking unbearably.

 

Bunnymund watches it happen, stroking Jack's hair despite his protests. “This is what happens when you don't obey me, Jack.” He murmurs softly, calm as a spring rain.

 

It hurts to speak, like shards of glass are being painstakingly dragged through the raw flesh of his mouth and filling his throat with blood. Jack sobs, wiping at his mouth with what remains of his shirt sleeve. His pants lie shredded between their tangled feet. “I'm _sorry_.”

 

“You're sorry because you're in pain. Get up.”

 

Immediately, Jack tries to obey but he collapses onto his side with a short gasp, too unsteady on his own to stand. The pain is lessening in slow, gradual degrees, but it has left him spectacularly shattered, a star imploding on its own radiance.

 

Jack has never known such suffering. Not even the time he fell out of a tree compares to this, nor the time Philipe's horse reared on him, barely missed Jack's skull and clipped his shoulder instead.

 

( _the wound had healed_ _well over time_ _, but the next day Philipe had been seen frantically searching the woods_ _and_ _calling out for his horse, which had disappeared overnight._ )

 

He never wants to experience it again.

 

When Bunnymund sighs shortly and bends to pick him up, Jack flinches, curling fearfully into himself. He knows he is being punished for his outburst and he regrets it so much now; why can't he ever just keep his stupid mouth shut?

 

But the Pooka does nothing to hurt him. He only lifts Jack carefully into his arms and settles him quietly there, cupping his cheek with the wordless affection Jack remembers seeing on his mother's face one night when he was delirious with fever.

 

It feels like a slap to the face, like that same fever has come back to haunt him; sweat plasters Jack's hair to his brow, makes him shiver in the cold air as his teeth chatter.

 

His mind struggles sluggishly to regain things it knew, simple things like numbers and the color of his mother's eyes- but thinking of his mother only serves to sicken Jack further.

 

_( It's her fault you're in this mess, Jack. If she hadn't birthed you none of this mess would have occurred at all. )_

 

Jack frowns as the thought stirs like a hurricane through his bare-bone thoughts, moaning in discontent. Bunnymund walks steady and slow, holding Jack like he is a delicate glass figurine yet still hard enough to crush him close against his chest. He murmurs to Jack as they traverse through the woods.

 

“You know I do hate to see you cry, pretty pet. They made you cry enough on their own; I won't have my doe suffering if I can help it.”

 

Jack feels like he should be saying something here, but he cannot figure out how to lift his tongue to speak. His head lolls feverishly on Bunnymund's shoulder, lifting occasionally when he regains strength in his neck and then drooping down when he loses it. His eyes flutter in pain and Jack grits his teeth, feels Bunnymund's heartbeat amble sweetly into his ear from where his cheek is pressed to the fur over his heart.

 

“That all depends on you, though.”

 

He does not notice they have approached a lake until Bunnymund begins to wade into it. The water sloshes quietly as it is disturbed, rippling widely around them like shimmering halos. He glances down, and despite the way his stomach lurches uneasily he tries righting himself to clamber higher onto the Pooka's shoulders. They haven't gone in deep, but he has never seen such dark, still waters. Whining incoherently and clutching at Bunnymund's shoulders, Jack twists in his arms, yanking his feet away from the choppy surface when his toes accidentally skim it. If the Pooka plans on drowning him, this is the perfect moment: Jack has had the wind knocked out of him, left weak by the mind-searing flash of pain apparently caused by his disobedience.

 

“ _Don't_.” He pleads. “I'll do anything you say, please- don't put me in-”

 

“Listen to me.” Bunnymund cuts in, keeping his tone gentle. He complies with Jack's panic and keeps him aloft over the water; their reflections shrink and expand jaggedly across the water, the moon hanging observantly in the sky behind them. It is not a lake Jack recognizes and he panics at the unfamiliarity of it, the sheer size and depth. He tries mumbling out a plea for mercy and is silenced with a tug on his hair.

 

Jack shrinks against him, nods once to show he is listening.

 

“It's like I said before, Jack.” Bunnymund gathers him into one arm, reaches down slowly to cup water in his great paw and bring it, leaking, to Jack's shoulder. Jack flinches at the cold and mouths a soft ' _no_ ,' and then goes still as it slides down his naked skin, making him shiver.

 

He is being bathed. He will likely be groomed afterwards, he thinks, and the thought comforts him. It is pleasing to think of, that tongue on his lips and hands and knees, the strokes to his hair. If he will be groomed, he will be ultimately forgiven.

 

The expression on Bunnymund's face as he washes Jack is tender, something Jack has seen for weeks now with no sign of it stopping. He wonders at so many things: how long had Bunnymund been watching him? How many of those times that Jack felt endlessly watched and followed, in and out of the woods, had been this actual creature observing him? How many times had Jack stood in close proximity to the Pooka without knowing it?

 

“You can accept that you're my doe, and we can go about this like proper mates should.” Bunnymund explains, using a wet knuckle to wipe dirt from Jack's cheek. “I can protect you, feed and bathe you, let you out to run and do as you please and take you wherever you'd like. Behave for me, love me and do as I say and I'll do most anything for you.”

 

Dully, Jack tries shaking his head. Why must he be forced to choose when he hardly has his head about him?

 

“Or you can refuse.”

 

Bunnymund's eyes flint for a fraction of a second, spiked with temporary anger. “You can deny it all and keep trying to get away from me as long as you live. But know this: cry and protest all you want, I'll still have you. And I won't kill you, Jack, but I can make you bleed in _so_ many different ways. And I'll still do all those things and more, and you'll still be my doe no matter what you convince yourself.”

 

A finger traces his lips, pressing down enough to still their trembling. The threat of a claw lies just beneath the velvety tip, sheathed for now.

 

This time, Jack does not think of his sister, or his mother or the well-being of the villagers he unwittingly left behind. The clarity of his situation reflects in his eyes, blue as the water they stand in.

 

He thinks of himself.

 

Jack thinks back to the nights he spent crying because he was afraid of the darkness. The endless rising suns that reminded him he was achingly alone, surrounded by many but unerringly apart from them for that he knew not which. He thinks of his friends, people who thought they had known him but had never noticed his troubles. He remembers how strongly he had hungered each night of his last free days for a being he had before only felt, starved for the real touch of a brutal paw and a bloody bite to his neck. He thinks of the way his nerves sing in ecstasy when Bunnymund touches him, kisses his marking, the way he's dreamt of the Pooka all his life, the times he thought he'd caught a glimpse of him in the woods.

 

He thinks of all the times he has worked hard to provide for his family, to pick up the slack his father's death left behind. Every grueling morning of waking up early, chopping wood, going deep into the forest to collect water from the well and carrying it back, working odd jobs around the village. The nights he had to work because his mother lay quiet in her bed, eyes sunken and depressed for a reason neither Jack nor his sister knew why. 

 

Wouldn't it be nice to belong to something, someone? To this Pooka that can so perfectly care for him, who has loved Jack longer than he knows, watched over him and cares for him now? 

 

Wouldn't it be nice to accept his buck, to belong to him mind and body and soul? 

 

Only very vaguely, he remembers he must protect his family.

 

The voice in Jack's mind chuckles. _Do you really think they deserve redemption, Jack?_

 

“Promise you won't hurt them.” He says. “Ever. No matter what I do, promise you'll hurt me and not them.”

 

A smile curls Bunnymund's lips; his eyes light up with his amusement. “Would you so readily defend those who betrayed you?”

 

Jack doesn't answer that. He doesn't know if he _can_.

 

His body tenses as Bunnymund drips water into his hair, dampening the thick brown strands and sending them askance, messier than before.

 

They both know Jack can no longer deny what is happening.

 

Blinking water from his eyes, Jack lies very still; he can feel something pulsing in his chest, each throb of it growing heavier and heavier. It leadens his limbs, leaves him heavy in the Pooka's arms. His marking tingles oddly on his hip. Jack knows he can no longer deny its existence. He was born damned and branded, his buck's paw-print blazed onto his skin like a proclamation unto the world.

 

He does not know if Bunnymund can read his mind, because at that moment he begins to slowly move deeper into the lake. Here, his height is an advantage, because where the water would be completely over Jack's head it has only just met the line of Bunnymund's shoulders. Jack's calves are halfway in, but he does not move away this time.

 

A glance at Bunnymund steals away Jack's fear.

 

His fur shines dimly in the moonlight; his eyes seem to hold an unsettling faint glow in the dark. And his features- he looks calm, knowing. Broad wide shoulders, fur almost rakishly tousled, eyes firmly affixed to Jack's. Jack envies his sureness; what he would give to be that confident himself, to know who and what he is and why he is here. But he does know why now. He can't lie to himself forever.

 

“So what will it be, Jack?” He asks, and the words click in the air like a writer's prompts, like everything simply makes sense now and Jack knows what must happen next.

 

He can't bring himself to enunciate the title, words of condemnation that they are. There is no way he can convince himself that they are simple words: he is undeniably the Pooka's _doe_ , bred in perfect oblivion to his fate.

 

Perhaps that is his own fault, but he will never know now.

 

Still looking at the Pooka, at Bunnymund, Jack swallows faintly. He is this creature's doe. A mate created specifically for the Pooka by some power beyond his grasp of knowledge, the Moon itself. How many more times in his life will he be forced to say it? How many more times until it becomes the norm for him, until the voice in his head is finally right, until the dreams stop being just that and he begins to more actively yearn for what frightens him?

 

“Don't make me say it.” He whispers. “Isn't it enough you already know?”

 

“Say it.” Bunnymund orders. He has not yet stopped washing Jack; handful after handful of water comes up dripping, sluicing smoothly off of Jack's limbs and belly and heightening his sensitivity to the cold. If anything, it helps soothe his easing fever from before. “Tell me or show me.”

 

Jack doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want any of this. It's obvious which is the easier option-

 

but as he reaches up, those infernal green eyes meet his and Jack feels something chip loose from his very being, and he knows it was something vital to his core because once it is gone he feels just a little emptier, a little less unsure. The second it has fallen away, the voice in his mind speaks.

 

_Look at him, Jack. He **adores** you._

 

He listens.

 

_You think he only means to use and scare you. But look at everything he's done for you. You've had his protection your whole life, and now you're here and you'll never be without it again. How can you hurt him so, and refuse him when he has done nothing but care for you? When he has done more for you than even your own mother did?_

 

_Let him love you._

 

Jack thinks on this for a moment.

 

Would it be so bad, to let himself be loved?

 

The voice is not without reason: Jack is aware now, that the Pooka has been watching over him all these years. And all these weeks that he has been captive, he has been clothed and fed, held tight in the nights when the winter cold seeps down through the earth to taunt them.

 

There has been the fear, and the roughness and the hurt and the harm.. but there has been that breathless devotion, worshipful kisses and touches that make Jack feel revered, _wanted_ where once he was (and now he knows this, now he is beginning to understand more fully, what his life was really like) scorned. The grooming- the way Bunnymund's tongue over him feels like a million different blessings, cleansing him of his fears.

 

“Okay.” He says, and takes the Pooka's jaw into his left hand. It shakes but holds fast with his determination, and he can sense Bunnymund's excitement, sees it in the way his ears tilt forward, no doubt absorbing the sounds of Jack's quickening heartbeat and breaths.

 

Bunnymund's jaw is long and taut, fitting in his palm like a smooth curve of velvety bone. Watching Jack expectantly, his face betrays no emotion, but Jack knows there is smugness somewhere in there.

 

Leaning in, it takes all of his courage to not twist away at the last moment- and then- _there_ , at _last_ -

 

Wild tremors spin up and down Jack's spine; his shoulders tense and ride up to his ears, his brows pressing downwards in self-loathing. Inexplicably his other hand rises to Bunnymund's jaw and he holds his buck there, fingers stirring up the fine fur of his throat and cheek as they kiss. Jack moves his mouth as best as he can, whimpering when paws clutch greedily at him and pull him closer.

 

Everything he knows in this moment is Bunnymund: the smell of blood and dirt and musky fur, the tangling of fingers in his hair and the large nose that presses into his cheek as they tilt, searching for a deeper kiss. When his hands tire of reaching upwards he lets them drift down slowly to wide shoulders, drags them hesitantly through his buck's angelically soft hide and then down to his chest. There is so much muscle, so much life thrumming beneath all this fur that Jack feels instantly overwhelmed, but he keeps on going, proud of himself for holding back tears.

 

It is a dangerous kiss, but it works to please the Pooka. As Jack mouths back into his lips, Bunnymund growls loudly in pleasure, the noise stirring chills along Jack's back. He is the first to pull away, licking his lips as he watches Jack reel back into his arms, panting.

 

“I might have known Manny would make you a greedy thing.” He rumbles, voice throaty and arrogantly pleased. “Gave you your first kiss not two weeks ago and now you're kissing me like you've burned for it.”

 

Jack feels his lips tingling with leftover heat, his cheek and jaw tingling with saliva from a long tongue's caress.

 

Shame burns in him, but it is dull compared to the satisfaction he feels clawing at his insides, an animal viciously pleased at the stroke of lips and tongues, the unspoken sealing of their lives, woven together more intricately now than ever.

 

“Come, pet.”

 

Bunnymund does not once let go of him, but Jack clings to him anyway, wincing as he is laid into the cold water. There, Bunnymund shushes his throat-enclosed whimpers with a lick to his cheek and begins to wash him thoroughly. He uses no soap of any kind but something about the process feels more like purification than any other method of cleaning Jack has ever used.

 

Heavy as his paws are, they glide gently across his thighs, scrubbing off the last of the dirt and sweat Jack knows has cooled there. He does not have to struggle to keep afloat but he does anyway, pressing his face into Bunnymund's neck and clutching handfuls of his fur to stabilize himself for fear of suddenly being let loose.

 

It is not a newfound fear, this one he harbors of drowning. It is common enough, but something about these deep lakes in the woods has always seemed malicious to Jack, like there was some type of evil hidden along its muddy bottom. The only time he feels absolutely safe near one of this size is when its surface is frozen over, because then he can skate and traverse it without fear of falling through, without imagining a loud crack and then the water rushing up to swallow him whole, where he would die _alone_ again in darkness.

 

It's then and only then that Jack feels emotion surging up past his heart and lungs and into his throat, making his eyes sting so thoroughly with tears that he shivers and lets out a shuddering gasp. He cries for what feels like the thousandth time in his life and his buck says nothing, only holds Jack aloft in the water and gently washes away his tears, rubs dirt from his bruised legs and neck. They are silent and cooperative and gentle with each other, and Bunnymund only watches and says nothing as Jack half-floats in the cool water, half-clings to him.

 

“You're doing so well, Jack.” Bunnymund murmurs to him. “My perfect little doe. You'll be good for me now, won't you?”

 

Jack can't answer; he grabs Bunnymund's ears again, tries closing the space between their bodies as he attempts to lift himself out of the water. Even with Bunnymund's paws on his body, anchoring him, he feels like he is going to be sucked downwards by a sudden current, like there are miles and miles of dark nothing beneath him and it will only take a push to fill his lungs and leave him dead.

 

“Don't let me go.” He pleads fearfully, arching his back when Bunnymund begins to kiss at his neck, gripping tight at his fur until his knuckles go pale. “I'm scared.”

 

“I know.” Bunnymund answers softly. His tongue circles the bruises he has left before on Jack's neck, the fading cuts and scabs where his teeth have pierced. He grunts as Jack holds tightly to his ears, his shoulders dipping into the water as he bends at the waist.

 

The whole scene is something more intimate than any dream Jack has ever experienced between them- the quiet sloshes of the water and rustling of leaves around them, the throatiness of Bunnymund's voice, his own panicked noises and the deadness of the night above them. He speaks to Jack like he is the only person alive worthy of hearing his voice, kisses him like he has waited millenia to do so.

 

He strokes Jack's bottom lip with his thumb, lips brushing Jack's cheek as he speaks. “Close your eyes, pet.”

 

This is it; he's going to be let go, drowned as punishment. Jack nearly bites down on his tongue in his scramble to apologize again. “Don't, please-”

 

A kiss hard as stone cuts off his protests; Jack whines in pain and reluctantly lets go of the Pooka's ears, hands sliding limply down to his chest. He can feel his hair fanning out in the water, the coolness of it caressing his scalp, lapping up to meet his cheeks and neck.

 

“I'm not going to let you go.” Bunnymund promises, stroking Jack's hair away from his temple. “Do as you're told, now.”

 

Jack grabs Bunnymund's wrists; his alarm has been subdued somewhat, but still he feels nervous, unsure. “Promise?”

 

And Bunnymund, the terrible Pooka that has slain several thousands and terrorized many more, smiles _affectionately_. He leans further down to kiss his doe and Jack lets him, his hands flying out to clasp at the fur of his buck's waist.

 

His eyes fall closed instantly, and in that same moment they both go plunging underwater, bodies pressed tightly together, lungs unprepared.

 

It matters nothing to either of them.

 

He does not try lying to himself this time. Jack kisses back because he knows he has to obey, but also because that urge to please Bunnymund is unfolding in him now, unearthed from the depths of his better-kept secrets and shaking itself loose with a vengeance. Jack does not know who he is now, here underwater kissing the subject of his nightmares, but he knows he is with his buck, and he is _safe_.

 

He holds onto Bunnymund because the feel of him is perfect; his heart throbs against his chest, exuberant at the nearness of his buck. A paw grasps his marked hip and Jack's mouth shocks open in a gasp at the resulting sensation. He has received no definite affirmation but he knows that his buck will not let him drown, and the greedy sucking of those lips on his is  _addicting_ , heavily so. Silence and water flood his ears, and Jack can hear the way the water churns restlessly around them, and when he opens his eyes he can see Bunnymund's own eyes glowing bright, half-lidded in his own world of pleasure.

 

The water is not as dark as he had thought it would be. The moon is prominent in the waters above them, reflecting off the surface and reaching long arms down through to them, calling them up.

 

Bunnymund pulls away, grabs Jack round the waist and brings them both to the surface with powerful strokes. They gasp and cough for air, and they stay in the shallower part of the lake for a long time after that, just the two of them quietly holding onto each other and listening to the forest around them release a breath of relief. The moon glazes over their shadowy forms, pleased with them both; Jack's hair catches and reflects the light so beautifully that in his reflection his hair looks purely made of moonbeams. Bunnymund kisses Jack again and again and again, cupping his cheeks reverently, never once letting up his stream of praises.

 

The significance of it all is not lost on Jack. He knows he has finally been baptized.

 

I I I I I I

 

Two days pass, and Jack begins to feel more and more apart from himself, or the Jack he once was.

 

Whatever it was that fell apart from him that day in the lake, it has triggered an enormous downfall. It takes a small touch or command from Bunnymund or nothing at all; he obeys, or he just sits and lets himself be touched and he can feel more of that odd thing falling away. It is like layers of marrow being scraped from the insides of his bones, leaving him hollow, ready to be filled with something different, something more beneficial. 

 

He eats slowly: today Bunnymund brought him sugary things, breads Jack has never tasted before. They're so delicate and flaky that they dissolve on his tongue, leave behind a sweet taste of honey. Along with that, there are slices of meats and cheeses; the nest is still redolent with their smell, just as when Bunnymund had arrived out of his tunnel with the bag of provisions slung over one shoulder, the scent had immediately made Jack's mouth water.

 

Now, he watches Jack eat, lying on his side in the nest beside him. Occasionally he stretches out an arm to wipe at Jack's lip where a speckle of saliva shines or to hold a piece of bread there until he accepts it into his mouth.

 

He hasn't spoken since his makeshift baptism; instead of mumbling out his thanks when he is finished, he closes his eyes as an arm circles his waist and drags him into the nest.

 

“Are you still hungry?”

 

Jack shakes his head. He's eaten enough to fill him until morning. It's more than he ever had to eat at home- at least in one sitting.

 

“Good.” Bunnymund says, pleased. He tucks his nose into the crook of Jack's shoulder, chin settling on a pale clavicle.

 

Since he ripped Jack's pants the night before, he's gone out and returned with more clean pairs of shirts and pants. It should worry him to be wearing strangers' clothing and not knowing whether the previous owners are still living, but mostly Jack is just glad to be clothed again.

 

Carefully, he turns his head so that his mouth is close to the Pooka's ear. He doesn't know why he does it, but the appendage shivers gleefully as his own breaths breeze over it.

 

It is incredibly odd to be grateful to this creature. Bunnymund has been harmful to Jack, cruel and selfish in his actions. But what kind of captor baptizes his prey when his own family would not, treats him like he is the most precious thing alive?

 

"Thank you." He whispers, clearing his throat when his uncertainty sticks his words there. "For what you did, at the lake."

 

Bunnymund purrs louder than he ever has before. His eyes glint as he curls his fingers into Jack's hair, exposes his neck and dips his head to suck a hard, bruising kiss there. "Did it please you, pet?"

 

Jack tucks his chin against his shoulder, mouth parting slightly to suck in deep breaths as those teeth work at his skin. He thinks of how unnatural he felt in the village, unbaptized and unsure of why. The way some people had looked at him when he'd admitted it, the way he'd never felt like he belonged in those pews on Sunday mornings, the way stares had sometimes burned into the back of his head as though to say _get out. You don't belong here. You're not one of us._

 

"Yes." He admits, and Bunnymund purrs again, deeper this time. 

 

Still, there is a question that has been nagging at him for days. Jack feels it scratching heatedly at his mind, wanting badly to be asked. ”No one would ever tell me why I wasn't baptized.” He says softly, casting his gaze down to Bunnymund's paws. “It's because of this, isn't it? You? And the marking?”

 

Bunnymund nods, smiling. “Your priest thought it would be an insult to his god, if he'd allowed you to receive that blessing. He knew as soon as he saw your marking you were unfit for baptism.”

 

Resentment curls in Jack like smoke, blackening his insides. He falls silent, picking softly at the dirt by his hand.

 

The anger does not come from nowhere. He has been feeling it for months, years now. Frustrated at his lack of sense of belonging, confused by his loneliness and the way he is treated by the other villagers, this fury has been a long time coming. Now, it only adds fuel to the fire inside him, and that odd creature, _thing,_ inside him, the source of that knowing voice, purrs in satisfaction.

 

Something heavy breaks off of him this time, splintering like dead wood and shattering into mere dust. If it is another part of himself, of who he was before that night at the lake and before his capture, Jack does not know, nor does he care. His mind is wholly overtaken by the bliss of being with Bunnymund, having those lips on his neck.

 

““You should've gotten me sooner.” Jack blurts, his eyes deliriously bright with his anger. He clutches at his buck's scruff, voice high and sweet, almost crazed. “They wouldn't have kept me from you.”

 

 _And wouldn't that have been much simpler?_ , the voice in his mind supplies.  _To have lived with your buck all this time, to know you were so heavily adored when those you grew up with cared little for you? Wouldn't it have been perfect to never have felt how different you were from them, to never feel their scorn and not know why you had warranted it?_

 

“ _Nothing_ can keep you from me.” Bunnymund hisses, correcting him, smoothing back his rage with a lick to Jack's cheek.

 

Jack leans into the touch, smiles faintly at the sensation of saliva cooling over his skin as he stretches up for a kiss. The first is tentative, like a nonbeliever attempting prayer for the first time. He kisses Bunnymund's lower lip, unaware of himself. And then he loses it completely: he licks and kisses, opening his mouth wider and wider until Bunnymund has completely filled his mouth, drinks from him as though he is the clearest, most satisfying cup of water.

 

And Jack, blissfully unaware of the turmoil and conflict latched up tight deep in his subconscious or the way it dims down when his heart flutters zealously,  _enjoys_ it.

 


	12. Perdition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are we doing here?” He asks, and it strikes him again that it is his buck who kills these people, would-be robbers and murderers and those who have committed the acts twenty times in a row, unfound. He hopes desperately that his assumption was right and they are here to bathe, there just happened to be a body lying near. But life has not been kind to him, why should luck be any different?
> 
> Bunnymund stares down at him, eyes and voice soft as the moss that grows on the large oaks in Jack's village, always on the sides of the trunks where the sunlight hits. “It's time for your punishment, Jack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING, this chapter has detailed accounts of rape and gore. 
> 
> Before you read, check out this [beautiful gif of Dark!Bunny](http://killianjoenss.tumblr.com/post/68196462032/midnightalbums-pawprintsandsnowflakes-this) by [Paw!](http://pawprintsandsnowflakes.tumblr.com)

 

In the third month of Jack's captivity there comes a brutal cold, like the earth is being punished for his decision. Jack has experienced such temperatures before, but never underground: the frigid air seeps in through the looser bits of earth and clatters around his feet like chipped pieces of porcelain. He wonders if it's snowing aboveground, or if there's deadly frost crusting the deadened grass.

 

On this night the temperature dips just below what he can bear, and his teeth chatter violently, hands going stiff. He refuses to give in and return to what warmth he knows lies coiled sweetly along Bunnymund's thick fur. Since that night at the lake, he has tried distancing himself from this creature in any way he can, unsettled by the way his unraveled mind has begun to slowly pool together again, towards coherency, _himself_ -

 

whatever of that that is left.

 

The blue-glowing flowers are, interestingly enough, not affected by the cold. They stand firmly in the dark soil, gleaming ever on and illuminating the Pooka's form softly. Jack sits too far from them to see correctly, but somehow he knows there is not even the slightest hint of a frost upon their leaves.

 

Bunnymund watches him from the velvet warmth of his nest, claws recently cleaned. He returned just an hour earlier, paws heavy with blood and torn flesh. “You're going to kill yourself like this.” He tells Jack.

 

“I can handle it.” Jack says, proud of himself for managing to unclench his jaw and not stuttering as he speaks. As soon as he'd woken up earlier today, he'd scrambled away from the Pooka's grasp, cornered himself into one of the nest's shadowy walls and huddled up there, desperate to be alone.

 

“No you can't.” Bunnymund says conversationally, like Jack's lips have not acquired a tint of blue. He is enjoying himself, watching Jack try and retain his stubbornness. “You'll die of frostbite if you're stupid enough to keep this up all night, Jack.”

 

“I'll manage.” Jack bites out.

 

This time, there comes no warning pain for his disobedience. He grits his teeth and expects it, but the mind-agony does not come. The cold, however, settles in heavily against him, rushing in like Jack is standing just at the lip of one of Bunnymund's tunnels and there is a fierce wind blowing straight in. A tremor rocks up his spine and he shivers wildly; Bunnymund's eyes slit dangerously, narrowed in annoyance. He says nothing; this time, he will let his doe think he is gaining ground.

 

The cold reminds Jack of home. Thoughts of his sister flicker dimly at the back of his mind, and he frowns, close to turning them away. It doesn't feel right to him, thinking of good, innocent things in this underground hell where a countless many have been brought, stained and slain.

 

Tenderly, Jack runs a frozen hand over the top of the dug-up soil at his feet. His whole life he has dreamed of being here. In the nights where he was alone, and in the nights where there was warmth, and in the nights where he was ravaged by heat and tongue and claw.

 

This is where his innocence has come to die, he thinks, and he would laugh if he weren't so cold. _What_ innocence? There has been no such thing for him, not for a long time. How many dark hours did Jack spend panting in his sleep as he was worked into? What morning was there that Jack did not wake with his cheeks burning in shame, where he did not touch himself desperately and wonder why it did not ever feel as good as what he pictured?

 

Words spark into his mind like stars peppering into the darkening sky, uninvited but wholly provoked.

 

 _This_ is home.

 

And is that not the truth? Even upon his arrival, Jack had felt the heavy familiarity of the nest, recognized its sloping walls and earthen, green scent tinged with things he knows now to be blood and what lives smell like just before they are snuffed. Here he has dreamt of being since he was young, and here he is now. It is home. The cabin in which he and his mother and sister lived is something separate now, a different entity from which he feels apart.

 

He doesn't know how long he lasts, sitting there as his skin tingles and deadens in color; time has lost its meaning to him.

 

When he finally moves away from the wall, his joints pop in protest, the cold searing uncomfortably into them. He whimpers a little at the pain of it, the unbelievable numbness in his arms and fingertips. He cannot stand it anymore, this hateful frigid cold that breezes into him and saps his body of energy.

 

Bunnymund watches him as he approaches, purring loudly when Jack drops awkwardly to his knees and stiffly crawls into his waiting arms. Teeth clattering, hands burning, he reluctantly pulls the creature's great arms around himself, bends his legs at the knees and folds them into his chest as Bunnymund pulls him in.

 

The heat of his body overwhelms Jack immediately; he grasps Bunnymund's fur tight, feeling the warmth like an intense fire as it licks over his skin, swathing him completely.

 

“Smart move.” Bunnymund murmurs, leaving Jack's anger hanging in the air, largely ignored. “You're like an icicle now- stubborn little pet.”

 

Jack says nothing. He is content being in this heat, silent.

 

Bunnymund told him before that he had known of Jack's creation for three hundred and twenty-eight years. Where had Jack been all that time? Unmade but waiting for life to be breathed into him, or not even existing at all?

 

His buck's tongue drags along Jack's neck, licking over the marks he knows litter his flesh.

 

_Bathing again- the river was cold, but not unbearable. He was waist-deep in the clear water, aware of the persistent stare on his body. A quick glance at his reflection in the clear lakewater had left him horrified. His hair was far more mussed than usual, his eyes lined with sleeplessness and his neck bruised and bitten beyond recognition. His left eye was darkened uncomfortably; the swelling had gone down in the days after Bunnymund had struck him, but the bruise lingered stubbornly, purpling the tender flesh around his eye._

 

_Far worse were the teethmarks that went all around his neck and deep into his flesh, leaving the skin around it mottled with red and purple and dried blood. A collar of sorts, one that announced to the world and any prying eyes that he had been viciously taken._

 

“Mine.” Bunnymund whispers to him, cupping a paw around Jack's waist. “All mine.”

 

“I'm not an object.” Jack protests weakly. It is trouble to move his lips; they are cold and stiff and on the verge of again letting loose angry words. Worse still is the way his lips seem to twitch upwards when Bunnymund purrs that word, like he has been waiting so long to hear it. “I'm not something you can keep and call yours.”

 

“Then what are you doing here, pet?” Bunnymund asks, and the smug confidence in his voice makes Jack want to scream. “If you're so unwilling to be kept, why don't you fight? Go on, leave me if you can.”

 

Jack bites back his tears, fury broiling in him like a teakettle left on a fire for far too long. Bunnymund smiles lazily at him, maliciously; he is the cat that dangles a mouse by its tail, that traps it in between its claws and the ground and occasionally flicks up its paw, offering a chance at freedom before striking down and trapping its catch again, lightning fast.

 

_( the fear wrings itself around Jack's heart, sinking sharp nails into him. he won't leave his buck, he can't, he won't, he **WON'T** \- )_

 

“You know I can't.” Jack says, voice void of the emotions he harbors. Alarm in his throat and disgust in his eyes.

 

“Exactly.” Bunnymund cups Jack's cheek, kisses him with a fierceness that is still so new to Jack. He holds him tight, doesn't let him move away from the kiss until he's had his fill and Jack is desperate for breath, close to choking. “Because you know you're mine, and because I won't let you.”

 

Jack looks away from him, cheeks flushed.

 

It is still so strange that he is spoken to in this manner. He has never had such words turned at him; he is caught here and they both know it, and Jack's mind knows it and so does his heart and yet they both pulse in a slow, steady way, like knowing this will never bother him again.

 

The way Bunnymund holds him even now: tight, sure grip, fingers wrapped around Jack's shoulder. Jack is curled into his chest, head buried into the crook of the creature's neck where he can smell the sweat beneath his fur, feel his pulse beat like a rhythm for Jack to sing to.

 

He curls his chilled toes and tucks them carefully against Bunnymund's hip, struggling to keep his touch away from the Pooka's groin.

 

“You never bring me any shoes.” He notices, the realization just now making itself known to him.

 

“No.” Bunnymund agrees. Everything about him is comfortable; lying like this, Jack does not feel afraid or threatened. He feels safe. “You don't care for them.”

 

It can't be too hard to have ever figured that out- how many times had Jack gone running and climbing with his friends through the trees without a scrap of protection on his feet? But that Bunnymund knows he doesn't care for footwear implies he has been paying more attention that Jack could have given him credit for.

 

“You don't know that.”

 

Bunnymund laughs derisively. “Jack, I've watched you for years. I know you better than you do yourself.”

 

Jack shivers into the Pooka's warmth, fingers slowly unclenching as a healthy pink returns to his skin. He remembers the snatches of movement he'd often caught along the forest's blurred edge, that heavy sense of foreboding that told him to walk faster in the nights, keep his head down and sight trained away from the trees. “I- all that time, when I was outside, near the woods..you were watching me?”

 

“'Outside'?” Bunnymund repeats, laughing like the mere notion is ridiculous. “Oh, pet. I watched you every moment I could. I was _always_ there, some times more noticeably than others.”

 

Jack's arms run with gooseflesh. Though this is unsettling news, to suddenly know that all his worryings of being watched were true is, strangely enough, largely a relief to him. “How?”

 

“I watched since your birth.” Bunnymund states. “Then, you noticed me more easily because we were new to each other. As you started dreaming the newness lessened, but still you always felt me nearby. Always called out for your buck to come closer in your sleep when you didn't know who I was at all.”

 

This is news to Jack, but it does not feel as such; it feels like information he's long had but forgotten time and time again. Every time he was out in the woods, when he woke with stained thighs, when he spoke to the priest.. always he had felt that same paranoia, that he was being watched from careful shadows.

 

“But I would have noticed you.” Jack reasons. “ _Anyone_ would have. Even in the village, it's not dark enough for you to go completely hidden.”

 

Bunnymund smiles; there's a sharp flash of something curious in his eyes, like he's egging Jack's thoughts onwards.

 

Like Jack's begun to get things right.

 

“Go on.” He says.

 

I I I I I I

 

_In the dream, he moans just loud enough for the sound to resonate and fill the darkness with his voice. He does not realize that outside of his sleep, the noises are far too audible. He does not know, so he does not bother silencing himself, but in the darkness of that underground cage he clamps his mouth shut, his temple breaking into another cold sweat._

 

_There is a tongue, and it is everywhere. Down his belly and then up again, stroking roughly over a sensitive nipple and then crossing upwards to his neck, lapping at the sweat. As it wraps lengthily around his cock, paws grip his thighs and Jack tries very hard to just lay still. It takes such effort to keep his sounds enclosed in his throat but he must do it, because this is wrong and whatever this creature may be, it is intent on its unholy purposes. It refuses to let Jack go, digs claws and teeth into his skin to threaten him into obedience. And because it feels so real, Jack goes very still, going limp on the ground and blinking back ashamed tears as his cock throbs eagerly._

 

_He does not know why there is a part of him that clamors for a kiss, and he shivers in gratitude when the saner part of him flinches in horror. There are so many things happening now he could not keep track of them if he tried, but all he knows now is that this creature is what has been providing him all that gorgeous heat in the dank quiet of his dreams. He knows that with it, he feels safe, but when its touches turn hungry he wants to yank away and throw himself into its arms simultaneously. He doesn’t know which is more tempting._

 

Perhaps _,_ _a strange voice in his mind muses,_ you should wake up now, Jack.

 

_A growl comes from the creature above him, like it has been listening in and is vehemently against the idea, but Jack has taken quickly to the suggestion. He knows he is dreaming; he can get out of this, away from these touches and that intrusive tongue and wake to find himself in splendid daylight, far away from any darkness._

 

_It takes a struggle. It always does, to wake. As he squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself to regain consciousness, the creature lowers to let out a sharp snarl into Jack’s ear, breaking his concentration. He yells and tries shoving it away but, pleased that Jack’s attention has returned to it, the creature’s startlingly adept, hand-like paws grip his wrists and then there is a heavy weight settling onto his hips, fur coating every part of him that has been covered._

 

Wake up **now** , Jack.

 

_He sits up slowly and opens his eyes, and the darkness has just moments before given way to light. His bedroom is awash in the daylight, shoes tossed carelessly to the side of his bed, skates hung up on the back of his door. There is a shadow just under the door’s frame._

 

_"Jack?" His mother asks, and he freezes, noticing now that his sheets and smallclothes are drenched in semen- but from where? His own erection, still unsatisfied, twitches just beneath his bedsheets, leaking quietly but not yet ready to release. Has he already spent himself before, earlier on in the night?_

 

_Jack springs to his feet, clutching the sheet around him and thanking heaven for the lock on his door as he grabs a regrettably dry washcloth to clean himself off with. He will have to run for the bathtub when she has gone away._

 

_"Jack?" His mother calls again, sounding unsure. "Are you alright?"_

 

_"I’m fine!" He calls out, because he does not know that this was the first night he’d made such sounds, nor that they had gone ringing through the walls like he’d purposely broadcast them. She lingers at his doorway, and a tiny thread of irritation spools up Jack’s shoulders as he clutches the sheet and the cloth around himself, his mind flashing vividly back to the dream._

 

_"Are you sure?"_

 

 _(_ _big paws, the nearly-there scrape of claws on his throat, greedy, snuffling nuzzles of a wet nose against the insides of his thighs-_ _)_

 

_He snaps back to the present with a jerk of his head, his cock twitching in earnest now at the heated recollections. “I said I’m fine!” He replies, his voice testy._

 

_Jack’s mother does not respond. She makes a quiet, hurt noise and leaves, and Jack can do nothing then but bunch up his bedsheets and set them firmly into his washbasket. He will have to clean them before he’s taken his bath- stains mean questions, and questions mean suspicion._

 

_He cannot help finishing the job, and when he is close to release he bites down on a mouthful of washcloth, unable to resist the phantom touches of paws and fur and whiskers on his hips and neck and waist._

 

_It is more of a mess to clean up after, and it leaves him in such an irritable mood for the rest of the day that he does not once notice that there is an odd kind of impression left behind on his bed, like another body has been there, lurking while he slept._

 

I I I I I I

 

Another recollection surges into his subconscious, ready to be displayed and remind him just how blind he has been, and Jack fights it, clutching at his head. He has had enough of these visions, of realizing how wrong he has been. “No more, no more, I know it was you, it was _you_ -!”

 

It makes sense. It all makes so much sense.

 

His nails, though he has bitten them to the quick, scrape lightly at his scalp: the resulting itch of it keeps him grounded as his thoughts spin onwards.

 

( _he cannot see it, the way there are sparks of shock-white sprouting just at the crown of his head like a fine dusting of snow,_ _tinging the sweet brown of his hair into something as cold as the snow_ _on the world_ _above them_ )

 

“Don't fight it, Jack.” Bunnymund advises him coolly. “Let yourself remember.”

 

“Remember _what_?” Jack whines, tearing his hands away from his temples to glare wildly at his buck. “Remember how you've been stalking me all my life? Giving me strange dreams even when I wasn't sleeping-?”

 

Bunnymund shakes his head, tutting in disappointment. “I never made you hallucinate outside of sleep, Jack.” He takes Jack's chin in his paw, forcing their gazes together. “You saw me each and every one of those times, perhaps not always in my truest form.”

 

Jack flinches, amazed. The Pooka's words no longer sound like those of a lunatic; he knows what is being discussed, now.

 

It all makes so much _goddamned_ sense.

 

“You wouldn't have- you're too big to have entered any cabin-” His fingers convulse in Bunnymund's fur, curling deep. There is so much that he does not understand; here is yet another addition to leave Jack further alienated from the world he thought he knew. “-you couldn't have done it, not like this.”

 

He is questioned with a sharp, knowing smile. “How do you think I did it?”

 

“I don't know.” Jack says, turning his eyes up to meet large green ones. “I don't … I don't know these things.”

 

Releasing a short sigh, like Jack's confusion taxes him, Bunnymund rolls onto his back, using his arms to gather Jack on top of him. The position is not uncomfortable but it is awkward; Jack, sweaty palms slipping on that sizeable chest where the fur becomes paler, resorts to straddling his buck, hips held in place by heavy paws. “You're right about my size- like this, I would have had to tear your door and wall apart to get into your cabin.” His lips twitch, baring teeth. “I would have done so out of impatience, but I held back. I shifted to a shape that allowed me to enter.”

 

Stunned, Jack says nothing. He continues to wind his fingers through Bunnymund's fur, because the motion is mechanical and it does not require thinking. The fur is soft and the strokes please Bunnymund, and so he keeps at it.

 

Amused at his reaction, the Pooka chuckles. “Do you not believe me, pet?”

 

“Wh-”

 

He cuts himself off, looking up uncertainly and then down again, anger forgotten. Bunnymund purrs to him as he waits for his doe to continue, licking his cheek.

 

He tries imagining the Pooka as anything else, another creature, another species entirely. The visions blur and warp wrongly in his mind, distorted by the logic his mind tries applying to the situation. None of the lore Jack had ever heard mentioned shape-shifting. Has Bunnymund kept this secret held tightly to only his knowing, or have they all been too blind, fooled by the reassurance of daylight's safety? Has he walked amongst them?

 

“You- you've been with me before?”

 

Bunnymund's breathing is slow, deep. Jack's hands rest limply on his scruffy abdomen, rising and falling as the creature's body moves to breathe. He is splayed out wonderfully underneath Jack, a black sky for him to fall through and never regain his footing again. He is caught amongst the world's fabric, ensnared in the constellations of his fates.

 

Looking down at the way their bodies touch together, Jack fights to keep his expression blank. If he wanted, Bunnymund could grind Jack's hips down onto his groin, manipulate his doe's body so that he receives what pleasure he seeks.

 

A short thrill of arousal shudders through Jack's body: he swallows hard, casting his eyes away from the Pooka, anywhere he will not see the way those eyes have gone darker, that smile a little more self-satisfied. He does not attempt to mask the sound; in this quiet nest, no noise escapes him.

 

Bunnymund speaks softly to him, one paw sliding down Jack's thigh until it rests on his knee, fingers dipping to fill the space behind. “I've been with you always, Jack. Try and retain what I tell you.”

 

Betrayal to Jack feels like a barbed string of twine, soft in its embrace round his throat and painfully sharp when it coils in, choking him. He thinks back to Bunnymund's promises and claims of protection, the night at the lake in which he was submerged- they both were- and resurfaced as new, Jack a doe for sure.

 

“Why didn't you tell me?” He asks softly. “If you knew, and you were with me all that time...why did you let them do what they did to me?”

 

“Because I couldn't.” Bunnymund says simply, like that explains everything. Before Jack can press further, the Pooka stops to cup Jack's chin, thumb stroking at his lower lip. “Jack- no more questions. You already know everything you need to- why question things further?”

 

This is not what Jack wants. When he tries to speak, the thumb on his lip slips past and Jack's mouth fills readily with saliva.

 

“Good.” Bunnymund croons, stroking Jack's hair like he is a dog to be congratulated for good behavior. “Beautiful little pet.”

 

This is not what Jack wants- but when Bunnymund looks at him so, when his buck's voice is that soft and pleased, Jack cannot bring himself to protest. Lost in the haze of triumph that befalls him at the quiet praise, Jack falls silent, his argument lost above them in the cold air.

 

His erection makes him want to undress, but that would mean having Bunnymund's eyes on him, and he is sure he would rather die of shame first. The Pooka just stares knowingly at Jack, lips still curled into that same smile as he tries moving away and does not budge an inch.

 

His paws lock Jack firmly in place, restraints Jack has no way of removing.

 

“Stay.”

 

For reasons Jack cannot figure, he does. It is not that he has no way of escaping. It is that relentless green stare that bores into his eyes, where he can see the unfathomable wells of lust and need. Something closes in Jack's throat; he swallows, watches as those ears tilt just a little forward. He remembers the dreams in which he is touched so beautifully, and the manner in which, when presented with the rare opportunity, Jack touched back, gasping and needy.

 

Bunnymund's gaze is hungry, so wanting of Jack that he feels his pulse quicken. Was he not made to please this creature? What harm can there be in obeying?

 

He unbuttons his pants slowly.

 

He is watched as he shifts a little to slide the pants down to his thighs. He is watched as he whimpers when he cups himself, thighs shaking.

 

Shame burns in Jack like scalding iron daggers but he cannot pay it any mind, not when there is bliss to be found in the strokes of his hand and when fingers are caressing his thighs, rough paw-pads dragging along his sensitive skin. Jack cannot look away from Bunnymund for even a second; trapped in their mutual stare and working his hand over his cock, Jack moans and absentmindedly tries shifting closer into Bunnymund's paws, like he wants to be pulled down onto those lips.

 

Intoxicated in the attention lavished upon him, Jack breathes out a moan and rocks forward onto his hands, bracing himself in the dirt so that his lips hover just over Bunnymund's. A sudden growl erupts from the Pooka's throat and he closes the space between them fast, taking Jack's lips harshly in his own and pressing their bodies close together.

 

It feels _beautiful_. Jack's mind swims contently, choosing to blindly ignore his shame in place of moving for pleasure.

 

The whole time, Jack's heart surges wildly against his chest, soft moans stringing forth from his throat like composed music. He clings to Bunnymund's shoulders and rolls his hips into that silken fur hopelessly, rubbing his cock humiliatingly into that firm body beneath him and it shouldn't feel good, he shouldn't be doing this and he shouldn't be moaning because it's just fur, there's no hands on him or anything so why does it feel so _perfect_ , and the voice in his mind whispers to him sweetly for his compliance, promising him that this is what he wants, has always wanted and will always have so long as he obeys.

 

It happens quickly, much faster than Jack thought it would- he rubs at himself for added intensity and in seconds he comes with a short yell and Bunnymund is immediately sitting up, pressing Jack into the nest so fast it hurts, but Jack hardly feels the pain because Bunnymund is licking at his groin, cleaning him of his semen.

 

Bunnymund says absolutely nothing to him. He goes on licking and nibbling at Jack's palm, sliding his tongue between Jack's fingers to collect the seed and it is like Jack has not slept in days, because though he wants to stay awake and pull away his eyes are falling closed, body going limp.

 

Jack does not feel the cold now. He lets himself be drawn onto his side and once again into his place at Bunnymund's chest, where he dozes to the sound of purring.

 

It is not a thick sleep; he wakes again easily, stirred to consciousness when Bunnymund's paw has slid down the flat plane of Jack's hip. Something less thought and more _memory_ occurs to him as the Pooka draws close into Jack's spine, spreading heat there.

 

I I I I I I

 

_The windowsill rattles._

 

_It does so every time the train comes by, lurching past their window in its brusque, stinking manner. It makes the windowsill in the porch, which is loose and slowly coming off its rusted nails, vibrate and splinter._

 

 _To accompany its irritating crescendo, Bunnymund's phone buzzes importantly, ringtone muted to an unbearable_ BRR-BRR-BRR _sound from where it lies on the coffee table._

 

“ _Are you gonna get that?” Jack asks, and flinches when teeth sink deep into his shoulder, fingers brushing past the ever-sensitive ring of scars around his neck to hold him firmly by the jaw._

 

“ _I'll get it when I'm through with you.”_

 

_Jack nods, braces himself more sturdily against the kitchen sink: locking his elbows into place, he folds them on its clean surface and presses his burning temple into his arms._

 

_Behind him, Bunnymund is naked from the waist up, his work-jeans unbuckled at his hips; the fearsome silver plaque that studs his belt, fittingly bearing a hare's design, glints evilly at Jack._

 

 _( when he'd first gotten it, he'd made Jack lick over its surface to polish it. he'd pushed Jack onto his belly and swatted his ass with the firm leather belt, struck harder and harder until Jack was begging him to stop and his flesh was tender, alarmingly red. how beautifully they had fucked afterwards! he could hear his buck's moans even now, feel the way he had grasped desperately at Jack like he feared losing his precious doe- his doe, his mate, his_ Jack _\- )_

 

“ _More,” He begs, pushing back as far as he can._

 

_Another train rattles by and Bunnymund comes, driving so hard into Jack he makes the doe shriek._

 

I I I I I I

 

He wakes to find Bunnymund watching him. Feeling groggy and displaced, he blinks slowly at the darkness and tries making sense of what he has just seen. 

 

“What was that?” He asks, a yawn forcing itself from his lips as he tugs his hand away from Bunnymund's grasp.

 

Bunnymund's breath hitches behind Jack's ear as he stretches, arms going a little rigid and claws raking at the ground as his body loosens. He says, “You dream of what you want most,” and Jack does not understand. He has never seen a train before. He does not know what a cellphone is.

 

Unsettled, Jack curls into a ball as Bunnymund steps over him, disappearing in the darkness, presumably to take a piss. “You don't know what I want.”

 

A laugh trails through the nest's still air. “I dunno, Jack. You sure as hell dreamt often about my cock.”

 

Jack twitches, like the words have prodded some part of him that is still full of resentment, but says nothing.

 

Content with this, Bunnymund is smiling as he returns. “Get up. We're going somewhere today, pet.”

 

They go through a tunnel, walking slowly. Bunnymund walks on his hind paws, towering above Jack and keeping an arm wrapped around his waist. He does not explain where they are going or why; Jack thinks it is safe to assume it is just another trip to a river, time for another bath.

 

For what feels like miles, he sees nothing but those same flowers and openings to other tunnels, all things that have by now become regular sights to him.

 

He tries as hard as he can to not think about what they- _he_  - did hours ago. His cheeks go hot at the memory of it when he fails, but-

 

That night in the water...he chose to say yes. He let himself be cleaned. He enjoyed those kisses.

 

What is changing? What is this emptiness in him where there once was something? He still cannot remember the name, but this curious cluelessness does not bother him as much as it used to. God help him, he is satisfied with the way things are for now- he still fears, but there is significantly less of it. Bunnymund's touches are heavy but he accepts them, kisses back because it feels **good** , it feels wonderful to be sucked and licked at until he cannot breathe.

 

_Because it feels good to be wanted by his buck._

 

Another sign of things changing.

 

It has been three months, and look at him now. Is this all the result of being captured for so long, or is this something else? Is the doe in him, so long denied and held back, finally stepping forward?

 

He is jolted from his thoughts when Bunnymund's hand goes tight on Jack's waist and he is being ushered forward into the tunnel's end, where there is dim light beckoning. He steps forward, stumbling with the heaviness of Bunnymund's borrowed weight, and finds himself in a forest, where a body lies underneath an almond tree.

 

Jack's stomach turns at the sight. The victim is undoubtedly dead; masses of writhing maggots infest the ragged openings in the flesh, black clouds of flies swarm overhead. The stench is near unbearable.

 

“What are we doing here?” He asks, and it strikes him again that it is his buck who kills these people, would-be robbers and murderers and those who have committed the acts twenty times in a row, unfound. He hopes desperately that his assumption was right and they are here to bathe, there just happened to be a body lying near. But life has not been kind to him, why should luck be any different?

 

Bunnymund stares down at him, eyes and voice soft as the moss that grows on the large oaks in Jack's village, always on the sides of the trunks where the sunlight hits.“It's time for your punishment, Jack.”

 

The fear finds its place in Jack's throat again, cruelly shoving out what little comfort he'd had there only moments ago. Things had been going so well, what has he done _now_?

 

“Punishment?” He repeats, bewildered.

  

Surely there must be a mistake, Jack thinks. Has he not been behaving, mostly?

 

“What do you mean?” He asks, grabbing Bunnymund's arm. He needs the contact; fear numbs his fingertips, makes him want to apologize for whatever it is he has done. “What punishment?”

 

And that is when Jack notices that Bunnymund staring over his shoulder, and when he turns to follow the gaze he realizes there has been someone watching them since they exited the tunnel.

 

A man and his horse stand stock still, several feet from where he and Bunnymund stand, alarmed at everything they have just witnessed. It is the first living person he has seen in three months- Jack flinches at the sight, unsure of whether he should shrink behind his buck or run to them for help. He looks closer, and then his heart flies into his throat; he knows that face.

 

“Philipe.” He says, and his mind catches up one second too late. He takes a step towards their intruder, face desolate. “Get out of here!” Jack screams, putting out his arms to clutch Bunnymund's, to make sure he does not immediately run for them. “Get out of here, now!”

 

The butcher shouts something back, already taking steps towards them, and Bunnymund chuckles as he watches despite the way Jack lets out a nervous sound, still trying to wave his old friend away from them. “That won't help him.” He warns.

 

Jack turns back to him, tangling his fingers into the fur of Bunnymund's neck pleadingly. “Don't hurt him.” He whispers. “Do this for me- please. He's a good man. He doesn't deserve this.”

 

Bunnymund is not listening. His eyes are on the new victim, following and calculating his movements. He looks lethal even like this: still and silent, ready and eager to have his claws sink so deep into flesh that they strike bone. Desperate, Jack tugs hard on his fur, his voice spiking into a cry.

 

“Bunny, please!”

 

The Pooka looks down at him then, smiling. He says nothing to alleviate Jack's fear but he knocks their mouths together so hard Jack yells, kissing him to the point he nearly robs him of breath.

 

Philipe, who has been watching the scene before him mutely as though stuck in his disbelief, breaks out of his stupor with a horrified shout. He comes closer to the two of them, either totally aware of the risk he is taking or stupidly blinded by his worry for Jack. His horse, tugged forward by the reins in his fist, brays nervously, reluctant to approach the Pooka. “Vile creature! Get away from him!”

 

And it is then that everything clicks in Jack's mind and he is suddenly devastated at the fragility of his body, his lack of strength, imperfect flesh and bone mechanism that he is in the structure of the world. He feels the kiss go cold and he gasps for air as Bunnymund smiles cruelly against his lips, claws sliding out of hiding to prick at Jack's shoulders as he looks up again. There is going to be a death tonight, and it is all Jack's fault.

 

“Bunnymund, _no_.” Jack whispers, so overwhelmed with his terror he feels he will vomit. He clutches Bunnymund's strong jaw, turns the Pooka's gaze to his own and tries not to flinch back in horror when he catches sight of the cold, black fury rippling over his demeanor like a sheet of water. His eyes are slitted to the extreme, leaving nothing behind but the barest sliver of black in those verdant pupils, the unholiest sight Jack has ever witnessed. “ _Please_!”

 

When he opens his mouth to snarl at Jack, his teeth glisten, too-bright with saliva, too sharp with their readiness to destroy. He takes Jack up by the waist and kisses him again, moving away to bite hard into his shoulder like he cannot resist a taste.

 

“What I'm about to do is punishment for every little time you've felt it right to disobey your buck.” Bunnymund orders, “You're going to pay close attention as I tear him apart. Any moment I catch you looking away or closing your eyes will mean a harder punishment for _you_ , pet.”

 

“ _No_!” Jack screams, but it is already much too late.

 

He is shoved heartily to the side, and when he tries to dart after the Pooka there is a terrible rumbling sound from the ground below him and a spiky barrier of dead roots and crusted, jagged earth shoots up to intercede. It is heavily reminiscent of the way new underbrush came unfolding fast from the earth to block his paths the first day of their 'meeting,' when Jack had tried escaping and had become hopelessly lost in the darkness.

 

He tries moving past it, running left and right and still more of it rises, dead and new growths alike all working as an eerie blockade to keep Jack from interfering.

 

“Philipe!” Jack screams, just in time to the butcher's own scream of terror, then pain. The horse's cries are louder; there is the loud thud of its body hitting the ground and then the sound of Bunnymund's assault, so chaotically violent that Jack wants to scream and vomit.

 

The growths stand level with Jack's elbows- he claws at them with terrified hands, desperate to get past and save his friend. He slices past dead leaves and brittle branch but there is still that solid, dead earth rising farther up to reinforce what he tears away, a wall of dirt. No matter which way Jack runs he cannot escape it, cannot get in.

 

There is another scream, this one louder, and the sound of Bunnymund growling.

 

Wild with terror, Jack strikes at the growths before him and shrieks when a nearby tree's branches, gnarled and heavy with age, snap to life, twisting to encase his wrists and string his arms up where they are of no use to him. Another branch curls forward to loop around his neck, urging him closer that he might get a good look at what is happening inside.

 

Jack forgets all fight and watches, horror-struck.

 

Through the mess of twisted roots and branches and dead greenery and the dark of the night, it is difficult to see.

 

Jack blinks past his tears, struggles to make out their shapes in the distance. Bunnymund has Philipe trapped on the ground, one paw against his throat. Though Jack cannot see his face, he imagines Philipe's eyes to be wide with terror, stammering out pleas for mercy. A sob wrenches its way out of him at the image; he has known Philipe since he was a child. How can a man as good as Philipe deserve such a fate: one who smiled even the gesture was not returned, wore and regaled the children with stories just as Jack did- what harm has he ever caused?

 

 

He catches sight of Bunnymund glancing in his direction, and the barriers come down all at once; the jagged levels of earth shift smoothly back into the ground like they never existed at all, covered again by grass. The branches and leaves twist upwards back to the skies and the roots to hell below, and though Jack has been dropped painfully to the ground he scrambles to his feet and runs.

 

“Stop!” He screams, and it feels like he cannot reach them fast enough, like he has been running for miles and they stretch ever onwards before him like apparitions of water in a desert. When he comes near enough he launches himself at the Pooka, cheeks cold with his sobbing.

 

“You said you wouldn't!” Jack cries, beating his fists on the creature's back, yanking handfuls of fur to get him away from the butcher. He barely manages to upset Bunnymund's balance, but as those paws rear away from Philipe's body to grab hold of him Jack sees thick drips of blood slide off their claws. The horse lies nearby, thrashing its legs and whinnying terrifically as its entrails shine from the slashes in its belly, already half dead. “You promised you wouldn't hurt them!”

 

“And I said I would punish you, too.” Bunnymund answers calmly, grabbing Jack's wrists hard enough to bruise. “Step away now, pet, let your buck finish his work.”

 

It is impossible not to see Philipe's reaction to the term; his eyes, though still wide and wet with terrified tears, take on a look of understanding Jack does not know he if he likes or not. “Jack-” He stutters, visibly broken, but Bunnymund growls angrily, silencing him. Jack is tempted to argue with Bunnymund to let him speak, but Philipe looks so drained of life already- how much time does he have left? If Bunnymund lets him go, can he be saved?

 

 _More importantly,_ the voice in his mind interrupts, _did he know you were here all along? Did he know this would happen to you?_

 

The thought of this being true is like a brutal slap to Jack's face, but he weathers it, determined to save Philipe. He cannot stand by and watch as his life is taken. If there must be a punishment, then let it be his, not Philipe's.

 

“Hurt me in his place.” Jack insists, refusing to step away. There are gashes on Philipe's neck: his arms, still extended with rough palms open as though they can keep Bunnymund away, shake, one wrist twisted terribly in the wrong direction. Blood seeps from a cut on his temple, drenching his left eye. “Let him go.”

 

Bunnymund laughs. “Don't be ridiculous, Jack.”

 

He leans in to suck a hot kiss onto Jack's lips, clutching his wrists hard to reel him in. Perhaps it is because of their audience that he makes it a noisy, wet kiss, using one paw to force Jack into it when all the doe can do is attempt to breathe and stop his crying.

 

When he has pulled away, Jack finds he is left rooted to the ground, both by the way his mind reels in response to the kiss and the way there are more of those damned roots breaking free of the earth now, rustling noisily as they wrap about his ankles and pull, sending him stumbling onto his side in the dirt.

 

He knocks his temple against the cold-hardened ground, and a loud ringing echoes invasively in his ears. It is lucky this happens, because there is then the sound of tearing flesh and another volley of screams.

 

Jack hears all of this, but distantly, like he is underwater and there is a voice just outside the surface calling his name. He struggles to get upright but his motions are sluggish, dazed.

 

He does not see how Bunnymund's claws sink deep into Philipe's neck, slicing through his trachea, nor the way he drags and flicks his paw upwards over the man's sternum, gutting him almost without effort. He does not see the way he digs into the cavern of his chest until he has accessed the stilled heart, torn it from its snug nest and bit viciously into it like it is the reddest apple on the farmer's tree.

 

Bile rises in his throat and this time Jack does vomit; he sobs and gags and retches onto the ground, glad that he does not have much to spill since he last ate in the morning.

 

He hates himself, hates that this is happening, that his innocent friend lies dead or dying because he was a fool and thought he could disobey his buck. What would have happened if Jack had been on his absolute best behavior since the beginning? Would Philipe still be here? Would Bunnymund have honored his promise?

 

Miserable, Jack curls in on himself, deaf and blind to what goes on behind him. He wants to get up and fight, yell and scream, but what help will that provide Philipe?

 

What good will disobedience do?

 

Even as he thinks this, he disobeys his buck's orders: he folds his fingers over his eyes and pretends nothing has gone wrong, that they are back in the nest and-

 

Bunnymund is standing above him. How long has he been there? How long has it been since the attack ended?

 

Though Jack is not looking, he can sense it- the Pooka emits such an odd, raw energy that Jack's heart quickens in response to it, beating at the cage of Jack's ribs like it wants to tear right out of his skin and into those bloody paws. He can sense his buck like nothing else, feel that odd call and pull towards him like he always has, even in the days where the dreams were only black underground and he had no paranoia of the forest.

 

He does not look up. Guilt clouds over him like the flies on the carcass they'd seen upon their arrival, festering what little sense of security he'd had left.

 

 _I could have done more to save him,_ he thinks, _But I didn't._

 

“You promised you wouldn't.” He repeats, sounding almost like a sullen child who has not gotten his toy.

 

A paw he knows is still blood-streaked strokes his hair. “Promises don't mean much of anything to me.”

 

He is unceremoniously hauled up onto his feet and pulled forward as Bunnymund walks ahead, and Jack realizes too late he is being walked in the direction of the body.

 

“No-” He says; he tries digging his heels into the ground, yanking at Bunnymund's arm to get him to stop, but the Pooka does not listen. He doggedly forces Jack forward until they are at the body's side, and Bunnymund has taken up a fistful of Jack's hair and has twisted him to face what once was Philipe.

 

“Look at him.” He snarls, and his claws are cruel on Jack's scalp, tangling in his hair. “ _ **Look**_ _at him._ ”

 

“No! Stop it!” Jack squeezes his eyes shut, hands clutching at Bunnymund's paws in an attempt to ease them out of his hair.

 

“Open your eyes or I'll go back to your blasted village and drag out your sister next.” Bunnymund spits, and Jack feels his heart clench faintly in his chest, and opens his eyes.

 

The area is a mess of blood and pink fleshy matter, internal organs all smashed and ripped to smithereens. Jack's stomach clenches in disgust; his knees buckle instantly, and when he drops Bunnymund releases him, lets him sink to his knees in the disgusting grass.

 

“This is what happens when you disobey your buck, Jack.” He says. “Not just a few little bits of pain in your head, not anymore. This,” He gestures to the scene before them, to the mutilated carcass with shattered bones sticking from the flesh, “Is because of _you_.”

 

Jack does not try to deny it. Philipe's death is forever on his shoulders now, an unbearable burden caused by his stupidity, his pigheaded stubbornness to escape. He knows he cannot escape now. All he can do is behave, and obey.

 

It has been three months.

 

_Three months._

 

Jack's eyes burn. He turns away from the scene, breathing carefully to avoid the stench of death that threatens to overwhelm his nostrils. “You can't _do_ this.”

 

“Can't I?” Bunnymund retorts. “I've kept watch over you all your life, pet. I've kept you safer now than you'll ever know. _I_ know what's best for you.”

 

“I don't need you to take care of me!” Jack shouts, his patience worn as Bunnymund's paw-pads. “I need you to take me _home_!”

 

He shivers when that hateful voice speaks up again. _Home is his nest, Jack._ Your _nest. Do you mean that pathetic village, where no one wants you?_

 

Bunnymund chuffs at him, an odd laugh. He rises to his full height slowly and Jack recognizes his mistake instantly, shrinking back as he is approached. Bunnymund on his hind legs is a startling sight, one Jack has not seen often. It closes up his throat to see it, how terrifically human this beast is.

 

He tries to stare dead on at Bunnymund but fails when they come nose to nose: he looks away, unnerved by the sight of those slitted pupils.

 

“If that's what you think then I reckon I'll leave you out here.” Bunnymund says softly, and terror strikes just as carefully into Jack's heart as the claw that strokes down his cheek.

 

( _the thought of being abandoned by his buck makes his heart constrict in pain, makes his mind go blank and eyes well with fright- what will he do without his buck, how will he survive?he can't lose_ _Bunnymund_ _, he_ _ **can't**_ _-_ )

 

“No, you can't!” Jack objects, and immediately quiets when a large paw places itself over his mouth. Madly, he wonders if licking those rough pads and the fur between the fingers will win his favor.

 

“Shh, Jack.” Bunnymund murmurs to him, eyes half-lidded and soft enough to fool Jack into thinking he is safe. He drags a paw down Jack's spine, letting it rest heavily in the small of his back. The paw on Jack's mouth he moves to his chin, tapping it in a gentle reprimand. “You need to start _listening_ to me, pet. It's not right, pretty little doe like you not submitting to your buck.”

 

“I may be your doe, but I'm not going to do what you say.” Jack spits, pulling his features into a blank expression. He cannot let Bunnymund see how afraid he is. “I won't submit to you.”

 

_Oh, but you want to, don't you?_

 

Jack fights against the urge to shut his eyes. He wants to yell and rage at that voice, cuss at it until it stops telling him these things, validating the shameful, horrific urges inside him and bringing them to light.

 

_You want to be his. We can both feel it, he and I. You want to be his doe, you want to be his, you want to be adored and you want to adore him, worship him like he does you. You accepted his offer before, why do you change your mind now? Do you think the people you knew will understand that, if you return? Do you think they will willingly understand that you were made to be his doe?_

 

_Do you think your buck would let you get away from him?_

 

“Stop.” Jack whispers, looking down at his feet dizzily. “Stop-”

 

_Do you care so little for your buck that you'd abandon him so selfishly?_

 

The voice stops when Bunnymund touches him again: it fades away into the recesses of Jack's mind as he drags his lips over Jack's jaw, kissing his closed eyelid and sliding up into his hair, where he kisses again and his whiskers tickle into Jack's scalp.

 

“You force yourself to misunderstand.” He says. “Everything I do, I do for you, Jack. Do you think that man didn't know about where you were?”

 

Jack's voice has gone small, like a child facing punishment. Like the other time they sat out in the woods so many weeks ago, he leans into the Pooka's plush chest, hands automatically grabbing fur and fingers splaying open to touch their tips at the muscle beneath. “He didn't- he would have told me.”

 

“He never would have told you, Jack.” Bunnymund whispers, voice gravelly. “Don't you understand, pet? They kept everything they could from you. Even your mum was sworn to secrecy. Anyone who told you _anything_ faced death.”

 

He is crying now, quietly but brokenly into his buck's chest, held firmly there by strong, capable arms. He does not want to know all this but he does- it clears everything he has ever questioned, explains away his misguided guilts and sadness to the lies and cunning of the many he knew and the many he loved.

 

“Why were they so afraid of me knowing?”

 

Bunnymund's kiss to his neck makes Jack tremble, his shoulder arching up to his ear in response to the brush of a tongue over sensitive skin. “I need you to submit to me, Jack.” He says distractedly, ignoring the question. His voice has gone deeper still, strange accent curling thickly, and though Jack cannot see it his eyes have gone heavy-lidded, dark. “It's been so long since... I need you to submit.”

 

His actions grow more insistent: his tongue strokes again and again over Jack's neck, long enough to wet down his shirt into the dip of his clavicle and up again to his nape. His paws rub eagerly at Jack's shoulders and down to his back, to his buttocks where they squeeze hard.

 

Alarmed, Jack tries to move away and is only yanked further in, head pushed to the side so that large teeth may scrape over his jaw and a large nose snuffle into the hair above his ear.

 

“Submit.” Bunnymund breathes, and it is obvious how aroused he is, pupils blown wide like dark moons, breathing heavy and ears tilted heavily forward to the point that they skim the top of Jack's head.

 

“I- I can't.” Jack whimpers, and furry fingers slide over his wrists, trapping him. He closes his eyes to remain calm and in that pseudo-darkness all he sees is Philipe, ripped open for the heavens to see. His mind fogs over in his confusion- it would be so easy, so perfect to submit, to drop to his knees and kiss those feet, bury his lips into the fur of Bunnymund's abdomen and neck and shoulders and kiss him until his lips hurt. He wants to see those upturned eyes alight with pleasure and satisfaction-

 

His mistake is that he opens his eyes: Bunnymund's smile tells Jack he was expecting that exact response.

 

Unsettled, Jack tries to pull his wrists free. Just hours ago they had been nearly comfortable with each other, lying close and warm together and uninvolved with the world around them. Now all that has come crashing down and one of his friends is dead by his buck's hand and now there is this new threat hurled at him.

 

“Then I'll make you.” Bunnymund says.

 

Fear glows bright in his pupils as he is easily wrangled down onto his back, his head knocking painfully against a tree's thick roots. Grass prickles sharply through his blouse's thin fabric, making him itch as tiny pebbles and the uneven ground push up at his back. On top of him, Bunnymund is growling, removing Jack's pants in harsh swipes of fabric and tossing them, still intact, to the side.

 

“Stop.” Jack says, because he is moving too fast, there is still blood on his paws and Philipe has just been killed, this should not be happening, but his voice goes unnoticed. Bunnymund's own cock is already hard and the sight of it makes something inside Jack snap and tear- he whimpers and shrinks away as Bunnymund pins his limbs with more of those damned roots.

 

“Stop!” He pleads, and is slapped hard enough that the discomfort the blow leaves in his jaw makes Jack cry. Large fingers slide into his mouth; working as a gag, they caress the insides of Jack's mouth, and he whimpers and trembles in fear as the claws slide out to trace over his tongue, as he tastes blood and god knows what else and as Bunnymund's cock hits his bare thighs hot and heavy.

 

“Shut up.” Bunnymund snarls, mouth hitched up at the corners in a furious snarl. “What will the others say if even the Pooka can't make his doe submit? What more punishment do you need? Should I kill your bitch mother next?”

 

“No!” Jack screams, but it is muffled by the digits attempting to shove themselves down his throat and comes out more as a gurgle. Bunnymund laughs cruelly at the sound and, taking Jack's hip in his unoccupied paw, bends to lick at Jack's flaccid penis. He jerks in response, tries unsuccessfully to bring his knees up for protection and ends up chafing his ankles on the roots' crusted bark.

 

He whines in confusion when his penis goes half-erect, heart thrumming fast in his throat. He tries spitting out another plea for Bunnymund to stop but then Bunnymund swallows him up in a loud slurp and Jack is wailing instead, taken aback by the sensation of a hot throat and long wet tongue all around him.

 

It is brief; before he can buck up into the touch Bunnymund releases him, moving downwards. Slick with saliva, Jack's cock perches against his belly, throbbing with want to counter the tears that streak his face. Bunnymund's tongue slides quickly over his thighs before dipping down to find his anus; Jack bucks wildly, crying out a protest when Bunnymund finally moves his fingers out of his mouth and grasps his thighs to keep him still.

 

“Relax, or I'll hurt you more than I mean to.” Bunnymund snaps at him, and Jack casts his head back into the grass and sobs at the sky.

 

It is everything he has dreamt of.

 

It is paws gripping him tight and saliva cooling on his salty skin, fur caressing his legs as a tongue eases into his anus. It is intoxication in the form of pleasure, sexual gratification in the most terrifying way he has ever received it.

 

He looks down and Bunnymund is staring right back at him, eyes tilted upwards in a knowing, hungry smile. He knows what he is doing- he knows this is what Jack dreams of the most, that Jack has ached and burned for this and that he is the only one who can soothe that burn, calm that itch. Without looking away, he leans in closer

 

( _his breaths and nose and whiskers against Jack's most sensitive area leave him shuddering without end, aching to pull away or pull closer_ )

 

and his tongue pushes in deeper, curiously clearing passage inside Jack and crooking upwards to press at something that leaves him gasping, body going taut and then loose fluidly.

 

He does not want this, but he does. He does not want to submit, but he does.

 

He does not want to be the doe, but he does.

 

Whiskers tickle at his cheeks and chin; downy fur caresses his whole body from where they touch together. Bunnymund kisses him and Jack is tempted to gag, but he schools the urge, tries bringing up his fists to push his buck away instead.

 

“B-nn-” Is all he manages to get out, pleas muffled by an insistent tongue.

 

A particular type of hunger, one that has dwelled deep in Jack's belly since that first provocative dream, flares to life as though expertly kindled, and he trembles with the surprise of it. This is, of course, obviously not the first time that this has happened to Jack, but this is the strongest he's ever felt it and he supposes this kiss is why. This excellent proximity to his- the Pooka and the way he is being held so hard he fears he'll break- things that should not be happening, that should have stayed in his dreams, things that should not even have been there in the first place. He is reminded of every single dream he'd had like this in quick flashes, though none compares to what Bunnymund feels like on him now; fur so silky it slips like water through his fingers, tongue so hot it blisters his own. Jack is overwhelmed by a sudden onslaught of _need_ , and when he whimpers into his captor's mouth there is a greedy squeeze to his hip and then nothing more.

 

Satisfied, Bunnymund lifts off of Jack, strong arms holding him up so that he stares again down at his doe, leaving Jack breathless and utterly confused against the tree's trunk. The eerie glow of his eyes gives away his disposition easily; pupils blown wide as moons, nostrils flared and whiskers twitching wildly as his ears perk, catching at the sounds of Jack's racing pulse.

 

“Bunny-” Jack whispers.

 

“You want me.” Bunnymund snarls into his ear, bites hard enough into the shell of his ear to make the skin split and bleed. He is tracing the very tip of one finger (the claws have been sheathed- Jack wants to cry with relief) into Jack, spreading him. “I watched you dream of me every night. I saw _everything_ : you always woke up cryin' and tuggin' at your cock and wishing _I_ was there to make it better.”

 

“No, I didn't!” Jack wails, but his tearful protests are lost in the brutality of Bunnymund's attack. His thighs are forced open and against his chest, calves tucked tightly against the Pooka's chest. As his limbs are moved the roots stretch from the ground, spraying dirt as they follow; they wrap more tightly around him, keeping him chained up like he is a bitch to be bred.

 

Laughing at Jack's discomfort, Bunnymund grinds his hips against Jack's, and the result is fire sparking in Jack's belly, a heated moan ripping from his throat before he can stop it.

 

He speaks as he moves, shifting down again to Jack's hips. “You have. You've done all that and more.”

 

The tongue comes at him again, and this time it does more than just tease: Jack cries out as it pushes into him, feels his body clench and jerk in protest to this new intrusion. He cannot bring himself to protest because his own tongue has gone knotted; he does not know if he wants Bunnymund to stop or if he wants this to happen. A small grunt escapes him; Jack's hips twist upwards, his neck straining against the root as his body responds to Bunnymund's touches. His cock twitches against his belly, leaking.

 

“Stop.” Jack chokes out, his voice scratchy with tears. “Please. I don't want this.”

 

The tongue pulls out and Jack flinches when Bunnymund's voice rises to a sharp, angry shout. He corners Jack against the tree-trunk, vicious. “ _Don't you fucking lie to me._ ” He reprimands, squeezing the meat of Jack's thigh so hard his eyes water. “Filthy little slut, you _want_ this. Tell me I'm right. Tell me how you've dreamt of your buck.”

 

Jack falters. His heartbeat picks up again; the thought of confessing to such sin-based dreams is horrific.

 

 _You are his doe,_ his mind assures him. _When you are with him, when you are_ his _, nothing is sin._

 

He says nothing.

 

Bunnymund's laugh is a delicate mix of angry and amused. For as thick as his odd accent is and as low as his voice can become, there is never such a trace of it in his laughter. It rings high in the cold air, unbidden and unchecked. “There's no shame in dreaming of your buck, Jack. I know you enjoy it.”

 

_Of course he'd liked the dreams. How could he have resisted such tempting squeezes to his virgin skin, the licks and kisses that made him feel worshiped, adored when instead he was regarded with caution and he knew not why? How else could he have responded than with an aching cock and soft little sounds, something akin to fierce devotion glowing in his chest when fear bit into his heart like a rabid wolf?_

 

_How could he not have loved it, the lavish and brutal attentions paid to him each night? How could he ever have denied it?_

 

“They scared me.” Jack says, because it is better than a direct denial. “You- you _raped_ me- I couldn't deal with it, feeling that _every_ night-”

 

“Of course they did.” Bunnymund says, dragging his nose down Jack's throat in a way that is almost overwhelmingly sensual, calm despite the flash of anger in his eyes. He drags a paw down the flat of Jack's belly, past his hip. He does not deny Jack's accusations. “A doe not knowing his buck's own touch is unheard of. I grew impatient; I sent those dreams to let you know I lusted for you the way you did me.”

 

He noses down to Jack's shoulder, his paw pushing indifferently past Jack's grasp to rub at his groin, an attention Jack struggles fast to ignore, and fails. “I didn't _lust_ for you-” He stammers, but he already knows the battle is lost.

 

“Admit it, or I'll make you hurt, pet.” Bunnymund says as he draws back, eyes glinting dangerously.

 

A simple threat, and it is too much.

 

This whole day has been too much for Jack- the bodies, the blood, the screams and the fucking and the revelations- his mind collapses like an ant hill under a boot. Fragile thing that it already is, it lets him give in to his wants without complaint, ignoring again the fear and the pain and the trauma he has suffered not only in the past twenty-four hours, but the three months he has been held and named doe. If it will get his buck to stop screaming at him, looking at him so hatefully, then Jack will confess it, though his insides burn with righteous shame, his body wracked with humiliated trembling and sobs.

 

“I lied.” Jack sobs, and Bunnymund huffs out a short, angry breath, moves back to his thighs and bends again to lap at his opening, making Jack's voice twitch and stutter. Refusing to watch, he stares up at the sky, amazed to find it still intact when his whole world has crumbled to ash in less than a few hours. “I did dream of you. I waited for you every night- wanted to feel you on me. I liked the way you felt in-”

 

Here he pauses and screams, twisting against Bunnymund as he is impaled.

 

Caught unprepared, his lungs heave for breath and his heart explodes into action in his chest; Jack goes motionless, toes curling inwards as Bunnymund continues to push slowly in, now hunched over his doe's battered form.

 

Panting hard, Bunnymund chuckles low in his throat, dragging his tongue over Jack's sweaty cheek and temple. He rolls his hips just a little forward, and with such unnerving proximity Jack can hear how his breath catches in his throat, the soft beginnings of a satisfied purr rumbling like thunder in his throat.

 

Jack pants, tries twisting away but it feels strange to move when Bunnymund is inside him- he feels so enormously full and he wants to weep at how magnificently **complete** he suddenly feels with his buck on top of him, inside him, purring like he is happy. He has never felt something so overwhelmingly in his life, not even the fear- this completion surpasses all that instantly, leaves him feeling like the ground has been snatched right from under his feet. Nothing has ever felt so good to Jack as this, as the way everything suddenly seems so terrifyingly immaculate in their closeness.

 

Terrified with this sensation, Jack tries pushing it away, avoiding it because he knows what this is now, he knows that these thoughts are him being the good doe, wanting to please his buck like he did earlier.

 

“You're hurting me!” he whimpers, close to hiccuping with his fright. It is still there, faint under the traces of his body's ecstasy and his mind's decay, largely ignored.

 

“Good.” Bunnymund snarls, and latches his teeth around Jack's shoulder, a quick bite that makes him flinch and cry harder. “I want it to hurt. Do you understand that, Jack? I want you to scream, and I want you to bleed and cry. I _want_ you to feel how much I can _hurt_ you.”

 

Jack yelps when a fistful of his hair is grabbed, yanked back to spill his pleas into the cool evening air. His pretty little body trembles in terror, dimpled hips wriggling madly as if he can ease Bunnymund out of him. His arms tremble and jerk at the elbows, unable to support their combined weight but valiantly trying. He babbles now, mind half gone to his terror.

 

“Please no, no no Bunnymund _don't-_ ,”

 

Bunnymund doesn't listen.

 

Like in most of the dreams, he is violent.

 

He clashes against Jack again and again and again, snarls and hisses out his anger and digs his claws deep enough to leave bloody punctures in Jack's thighs. After months of withholding his own base urges, he is gone to those instincts now, pure animal in heat. Hunched tersely over Jack, Bunnymund mates his doe with little finesse; it is visceral and coarse, painful and agonizingly good.

 

He has had Jack before- he has been too impatient, eagerly taken advantage of his doe time and time again even in the alleged safety of his little cabin, but now-

 

He grunts loudly, bites into Jack's lower lip to taste the blood, licks into his mouth and presses himself against his doe's body, grants his flushed little cock a friction it will know nowhere else. (He continues to cry but considerably less, noticeably taken aback by the onslaught of motion, pleasure and emotion.) He is fucking his doe on his own terms, on his own territory: the knowledge of this, that he is desecrating this divine earth beneath him is like his first touch of Jack's flesh many years ago- he is giddy with it. Even without Jack's consent, without his participation or the vocal approval he knows he will come to gain later, it is the best sex Bunnymund has ever had, as it is every time he is with his doe.

 

Bunnymund can smell the want on him as well as the fear; on his lips he tastes conflicted lust, in the strain of his arms against his shifting binds he feels the intent to shove away and wrap around. He ignores it all for the sake of his own pleasure, because this is Jack's punishment as well. In this stage, the fucking is filthy and degrading, literally the stuff of Jack's not-so-nightmares.

 

He comes twice, and the second time he makes sure to utter a soft snarl into Jack's ear, because by that time he has gone still and silent and Bunnymund has been enjoying himself too much, the boy needs to remember that this is a product of his misbehavior. A messy pool of semen, Jack's, lies cooling on his belly, and as Bunnymund licks it up he smiles, feeling Jack twitch beneath him. There is more still: Bunnymund's own seed is smeared messily about Jack's thighs and buttocks, staining the ground between his thighs. As he calls the bindings off and Jack goes limp, he fights the urge to lick that away as well, because that is not part of the plan.

 

Jack watches as his buck re-dresses him. Moving with an astonishing gentleness, (and this time, he'd taken the care to remove Jack's clothing carefully, what has he been planning?) he keeps silent as Bunnymund retracts his claws to avoid causing tiny scrapes. He fits the pants back up Jack's come-stained legs and growls when Jack stirs in discomfort and disgust, smoothes his paws up along the long limbs to let the fabric soak in its sticky heat, leaving dark, telltale splotches where his seed lies.

 

When he fits Jack into his shirt, he does up each button like they are the clasps that keep the two of them together; like these are the things that cement them forever in unison in their terrible existences.

 

Satisfied at Jack's state of disarray, Bunnymund smiles. Though he is clothed, he reeks of fur and sex, dirt and their combined sweat. There is just one thing missing.

 

“You'll dream well of me tonight.” He murmurs, and Jack continues to say nothing, because his voice feels like nothing but a whisper now, nonexistent. He was not heard in his pleas for the abuse to stop, why should he be heard now?

 

Now, he'll be taken back to the nest and they'll sleep there, and when he wakes Bunnymund will be gone and there will be food waiting for him and he will be just as trapped as ever, Jack thinks quietly. But instead, Bunnymund lies next to him.

 

He draws Jack close and nuzzles sweetly into his neck, all ruthless savagery gone now that he has gotten what he wanted and successfully fucked his doe into submission. He jerks his hips alongside Jack's, pressing down hard and laughing when Jack cries out, throat weak and raw, at the sudden wet heat that slicks into his clothing and against his skin. He tries pushing the creature off of him and only gains another laugh, a harder stream and a thicker stench of urine.

 

Something inside Jack bays as wildly as a hound frothing at the mouth

 

( **_marked_** ,

 

_he is being marked, gifted with his buck's scents, marked as his own territory )_

 

but it clashes lewdly with his horror. Jack lets out a noise of disgust and beats at the Pooka's chest as hard as he can, aiming a strike for his heart that ends for him with a pained whimper when Bunnymund catches and twists his wrists painfully.

 

By now, he has finished urinating; Jack's legs are soaked in it, the fabric of his pants now itchy and uncomfortable on his skin. The urine trickles down his body slowly, pools at his feet and disappears into the dry earth.

 

“Anything,” Bunnymund says, and that is what scares Jack, any _thing,_ “within twenty miles of you will be able to smell me on you now.”

 

He stands easily and moves to pick Jack up, paws gently sliding under his knees and neck. “I'm going to let you up now.” He says to Jack. “You should be able to stand.”

 

He's right- when he straightens Jack out onto his feet, he wobbles, leaning heavily against the Pooka as he bites his lip to avoid crying out in pain. He is bruised and bitten to high heaven now, ragged and dirty as the shirt he left out in the rain that first day in the river should be.

 

For a few minutes Bunnymund lets him lean against his chest. He holds Jack by the hips and keeps him steady when all Jack wants to do is crumple to his knees and let his world finish deteriorating. Neither of them say a single word, but Bunnymund strokes his paws over Jack's back like he is a child to be consoled.

 

He begins to pull away slowly, leaving Jack standing on his own though still held. Pressing another kiss to Jack's lips, Bunnymund is smiling like he knows something Jack does not.

 

“Time to go, pet.” He says, and laughs when Jack automatically, slowly, steps to his side. “No, you're not coming this time. Stay put.”

 

Jack's heart clenches in fear. He wants to ask why, but his throat feels far too dry to allow any words past. His eyes convey his alarm well; Bunnymund makes a soft shushing sound to soften his fear, strokes his cheek.

 

“You said you didn't need my protection.” He explains, and Jack's heart begins to steadily climb up his throat, making him feel like he is going to vomit yet again. This can't be happening, too many things going wrong today and now this, now his buck is leaving him out in the dark, it can't be-

 

“W-wait-” Jack says and his throat burns for it, itching irritably as he stumbles forward when the Pooka gives a dry laugh and turns away. Terror rings in his ears like the echoes of a scream; regret chokes his words at the necks like a too-tight collar.

 

“Good night, pretty pet.” Bunnymund interrupts, and Jack gets one last glimpse of glowing green eyes before the Pooka vanishes into the dark, leaving him utterly, surprisingly alone.

 

Filthy and swaying in dismay, Jack's foot catches on a low-strung root and he goes sprawling onto his belly. The blow of the ground meeting him leaves him temporarily breathless as an emptied bellows, and his mind swims with the words he'd stopped himself from uttering just before Bunnymund disappeared.

 

 _'Come back?'_ The voice in his head snipes, indignant. _Did you think he would come running back to you when you've done nothing but disappoint him, Jack? You'll be lucky if he remembers you come morning._

 

Cold, confused and battered, Jack curls up in the grass, spent of tears but ravaged by the debilitating loneliness that devours him. He is not sure how long he lies there, but as he stares into the darkness his body slowly recovers from the brutality of his buck's assault, and Jack finds himself wishing he had tried harder to get Bunnymund to stay.

 

He is a terrible doe, he thinks, shivering in the night's cold.  

 

 


	13. Crimson and Bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -without him here, Jack feels lost, left without guidance to struggle in the filth of his own detrimental existence. Can it be that what is happening to him is good? That after his makeshift baptism, he has begun to piece himself together, instead of apart? Is that why he has begun to feel so different, so unlike himself- because with Bunnymund-
> 
> with his buck-
> 
> things are finally better for him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20 page update for lack of any update whatsoever in the past month or so. 
> 
> Disclaimer: While this fic is heavily inspired by the works, the line “Because there is no god, someone must take responsibility for men” is taken directly from American conceptual artist Jenny Holzer's [Inflammatory Essays.](http://www.emptykingdom.com/featured/inflammatory-essays-jenny-holzer/) Parts used from her works will be distinguished with tiny use of underlining (i.e., "This is an example”) so as not to disrupt/distract reading. I claim no ownership over them whatsoever, and use them only for storyline aid.

 

It does not surprise Bunnymund that it physically pains him to depart, and then it does.

 

To see the manner in which Jack reaches after him makes Bunnymund's mind spin, makes him temporarily unsteady like he has been dealt a powerful blow. Jack needs him now more than ever: alone and hurt, he will feel the pressing loneliness close in on him at last. He will feel just how much of a presence his buck has forced unto him, and he will go mad with the lack of it. He has taken any sense of comfort and security he has ever offered and swept it directly out from beneath Jack's feet, casting him into blinding confusion and harrowing dark.

 

He runs his tongue along his lips, cleaning them of blood and saliva. He looks down at his paws, the thick furred digits and slid-out claws. With these, he has left his own touches along Jack's flesh, raped what innocence he has found in that once-pure little being. He will wholly slaughter it when comes the time and it will be remarkable and good; he will make Jack utterly his, again and again until the doe has finally taken the title with pride. Still, he detects miniscule vestiges of sense in Jack's mind- there linger the traces of rational want: to return home, to protect his sister, to relocate what belief he has lost in the god he once thought to be real and kind. Those too, Bunnymund aims to destroy. There will be nothing left of the Jackson the world has known when he is through.

 

He has planned it, detailed and pored over it all in the three hundred-odd years he has been forced to wait on his doe. The Jackson those worthless fools raised is not without fault. He is still haunted and guilty for his blind faith in them when they showed little to none. He still believes them friends and family when they saw him as a monster, a mystery force bound to implode of its own accord or, with the eventual gravitational pull of what created him, burn bright and scorch all within reach.

 

This, of course, must be swiftly fixed.

 

Bunnymund examines his claws, feeling the ghostly slide of Jack's skin against them. Vividly, he imagines cupping Jack's neck, crooking his fingers and letting them puncture, quickly becoming wet with blood as Jack clings to him and shakes, doing nothing to deter his buck's actions.

 

_( “stars died so that I might have lived.” he explained to Jack once, in the midst of a grooming where Jack lay mute and forcibly still. “He wrought new life for you and I both in their forms. I am not godless in my actions, pet.”_

 

_and jack had lain in silence, only breaking it to ask “the Moon is your god?” to which Bunnymund confirmed with a sweet stroke of his tongue to his temple. )_

 

He knows Jack is slipping. That thin-fingered grasp he has held so desperately to what he thought as his reality lessens by the day, weakening as each finger contemplates letting go, one by one. To fully achieve his goal he must stamp on those fingers and watch his doe fall, meet him at the bottom of his mind's crevasse in time to catch what is left, and piece it together with his own parts. He will show the doe how worthless everything in his life has been, how he exists for a life better than what that pathetic village has accrued.

 

He slides down into the tunnel with forced intent, dropping without sound to the loose-packed earth and sealing the tunnel's opening, the action distracted, an afterthought. Shrouded in darkness, Bunnymund drops heavily onto his side, aware of nothing but the sounds. He is not too far below: from these short depths, he can still hear much of what goes on above.

 

Faintly, there are panicked breaths, a call of a name

 

(his)

 

and the drop of a body onto the cold ground, tears, the rustling of dead grass and catch and drag of skin and fabric against old root.

 

Bunnymund listens raptly, picturing with ease the desolate image his doe might make upon the forest ground where he has cast himself in desperation. Beating wildly in exhilaration, triumphant at the noticeable disarray in which he has left his doe, his heart slams out a victorious beat like that of indigenous ritual drums. His instincts war at the plan in his mind, demanding that he return to the forest and collect his doe, guide him back to the safety of the nest and his own arms where he will be shown he is loved without question.

 

He spends an hour or so seated in that manner, ears pointed upwards to the sounds Jack makes and eyes staring blankly into the dark ahead of him, the need to return and soothe Jack's fearful sounds growing so immaculately violent that, unable to contain it, he jerks upright and away from the noise, lunging through another tunnel's opening and running until he is far from any physical trace of Jack.

 

But that does not mean Jack does not haunt him.

 

The sounds continue to ring in his ears, keeping pace with him as hard as he tries to outrun them.

 

_( a furious plea for Bunnymund to **stop**. a pained whimper choked in the back of his throat. the dry sobs scratching past his dry throat when he could cry no more. the hiss of shock he'd released when Bunnymund had spurted inside him. )_

 

His fur is matted with their mixed semen, the lighter areas of his chest and throat smeared with the worthless villager's (Philipe, that had been his name) blood; on his tongue linger the mingled tastes of salted tears and sweat. He thinks of the thorough grooming he will have to give his fur to rid it of the sinful mess, and his mind traitorously flashes back to the thought of Jack, the memory of those unwittingly drooling lips pressed against his neck and smearing the fur with saliva, his excited cock leaving sticky messes along the shared lines of their bodies. He hisses in frustration but resists the temptation to return, turning to shove the brunt of his annoyance on a nearby tree. His claws dig in deep to its bark as he slashes, and when he slams his paw heavily into the trunk there is a loud, aching groan that comes from its center, and the leaves and bare branches tremble warily. Sap oozes from the openings, and though he abhors the smell he is glad, for it replaces Jack's scent heavily. If he lets himself give in to the desire and return, all will have been for naught, and he cannot have that.

 

He walks slowly amongst the trees, breathing deeply. Distantly, he can hear the plainer of the earth's creatures going very, very still, waiting for him to pass and leave them still breathing. They do not speak his languages nor share his intelligence, but they sense the wrongness of him fast. Bunnymund walks on and lets them be, too pleased with the night to be a bother to them.

 

Though he has left Jack's near vicinity, they are both still within close distance. The country in which they are situated, while not currently capped in snow, receives the brunt of the Northern winds' cold. While he considers it astonishing that there should be such a prominent lack of snow, he does not bother wondering at it any further. Should there have been any, doubtless Jack would have frozen overnight.

 

Canada, he thinks as he walks onwards, is an interesting country. He has tunnels leading to and from, of course, but because of the cold has never had any interest in making a nest there, and it is because of this that others such as he think it wise to encroach on his territory.

 

The thought of it spikes the fur on his spine, and it takes work to suppress the hiss of rage that climbs his throat. There are the animals that mean no harm by it, and then there are those that do: he can smell the traces of them even now, fading as he pushes past in his new anger. Most noticeable is the scent of one determined creature whom has gone so far as to piss over the near entrance of an old vein of tunnels, disregarding Bunnymund's own markings upon the area.

 

His fury comes in blows across his control.

 

I I I I I I

 

_( They have been arguing for hours now. Annoyed but not impatient, Bunnymund sighs at length and begins petting Jack's hair as he often does, smoothing white-peppered hair from his temple. Jack takes the gesture as an invitation to calm down: he bites back his contempt and seethes quietly, his brown eyes flatly defiant._

 

“ _B ecause there is no god someone must take responsibility for men.”_

 

_Jack moves to interrupt and falls silent, like the words have been struck immediately from his mind. Bunnymund focuses his sight on every tiny feature of Jack's face, memorizing the specks and dips that cut down to formulate mosaics in his irises, the bumps on his skin and the texture of his hair. “I kill to make the world safer for you, pet. I'd sooner kill an entire village than let any common filth touch you.”_

 

_Jack purses his lips. “Not everyone means to do harm.”_

 

_Bunnymund noses into Jack's hair, lifting his chin and rubbing down hard to ensure maximum coverage. The doe will forever onwards smell of his buck- should a day ever come where Jack does not carry his scent, his punishment will have him wishing for death. “That's what fools think.”_

 

_Jack squeezes a hand past Bunnymund's arms, pushing hair from where it has fallen over his eyes. “Then the stories are wrong.” Jack accuses. “You'll kill anyone.”_

 

“ _Obviously.”_

 

_Shifting onto his side, Bunnymund yawns widely. He is exhausted; due to the cold above there has been a lack of good hunt in the forests, forcing him into the villages. Usually he would not mind, but these killings take longer, and lately all he has wanted is quick kills and rapid return to the nest so that he can coddle his doe._

 

“ _I dreamt for you, you know.” He tells Jack, scooping the pale doe into his arms and settling him close. He traces Jack's lips with an index finger before pushing it into that wet little mouth, a nipple for a hungry babe. “Every night I waited, I closed my eyes and dreamt what the world would look like through your eyes. I tried imagining your voice, what you would feel like in my arms and in my nest. Three hundred years of that, pet. I went half-mad waiting.”_

 

_Enveloped in sweet fur, Jack finds himself quickly becoming drowsy. Bunnymund's finger in his mouth is not an annoyance, but it feels odd to have it there; he is not sure what he should be doing with it. The chill of the nest does not touch any part of his skin; seeking more of that warmth, he allows heavy arms to press him downwards into Bunnymund's chest, nose and cheek tucked into a strong throat. There, he feels the quick beat of Bunnymund's heart, and he wonders that if he were to bare his teeth and bite down, would he have the strength to tear out flesh?_

 

 _(_ more appetizing is the thought of pressing his lips to the shorter hairs there, suckling at the more sensitive patches just beneath Bunnymund's jaw and listening to his buck purr _)_

 

“ _Do you know how maddening it is, Jack? To wait so long and all that time know your mate was still unborn? To feel like there's no breath in your lungs? I thought I'd die without seeing you.”_

 

_He has said the right things: though they are not lies, they are barbed and purposeful, perched at his tongue and cut deeply into that stainless little heart to contort and agonize. He has suffered many hundred years without his doe. Let the doe now suffer for him, let him hurt over the guilt of leaving his buck to wait, alone. Here he lets his unoccupied paw drag restlessly over white skin, claws gone to eliminate discomfort. “I may be cruel at times, but it's for your benefit and mine.” He continues. For once, he is more intent on his words than on the hesitantly erotic sweep of that pink, inexperienced tongue along his digit. “You may still fear me, pet, but know I've never been as complete as the day I saw you at last.”_

 

_Jack pulls away from the finger in his mouth; he has heard enough. He touches his chin to his chest and nestles his fingers into his tangled hair, gripping in an effort to rid himself of what he thinks are traitorous thoughts. He is easily read; he is rethinking himself, questioning his fast-deadening hatred. Guilt whitens his knuckles. Tremors make the bumps of his bones dance behind thin flesh._

 

_He says nothing: it is a valiant effort at containing himself. He is failing the war with confusion, as he should. His design makes it so; he will inevitably fail, but at what cost even Bunnymund does not know. He cannot cement the future, but he can shape it how he likes._

 

_Bunnymund takes Jack's wrists and pulls until the doe has no choice but to look up. There is no attempt to pull away; he has long since learned he cannot fight back, not physically. His eyes are weak with loss of sleep, lips dry. He smells dirty, of warm animal and cold underground._

 

“ _Such as the doe worships his buck, the buck worships his doe.” Bunnymund turns a wrist in his paw and kisses the smooth underside of it, brushing his lips just over a thread of veins that closely resembles a nebula he once knew well. “I've given and lost so much to have you.”_

 

“ _But you had choices.” Jack reminds him, speaking suddenly in a clear, ready tone. He shivers at the kiss to his wrist, fingers clenching automatically in response to the breaching of an intimate area. Perhaps he is envisioning the snap of teeth into his skin, the splitting of veins. “I was forced. You've taken_ everything _from me.”_

 

_He is still rankling over the confusion of losing the life he thought he had. Bunnymund squeezes Jack's wrists, wishing to see the reddened marks of his paws linger for a hot pulse and then whiten and disappear when he lets go. It is not a hard squeeze, but Jack winces._

 

“ _You gave it willingly.” He tells Jack. “That night I brought you home- you agreed to come. I could have sped things up and done it by force.”_

 

_Jack's eyes narrow, and for a moment the old hatred is back. Anger is beautiful on him, just as the sadness, and the happiness. It ages him. “Because you tricked me.” He accuses._

 

“ _For your well-being, pet, I'd do anything.” Bunnymund is tempted to tighten his grip- it would be so easy to snap those skinny little wrists, to taunt the doe for falling prey to his anger and allowing himself to be belligerent. But he likes seeing this defiance more, for what good is a victory without a struggle?_

 

“ _Leave me, then.” Jack sneers, attempting bravado. “You're nothing but danger to me.”_

 

_Gone dark, Bunnymund's eyes are like pools of ink. “I'm the most safety you'll ever know. You'll not ever understand if you keep hating me so.”_

 

_Jack's contempt makes him beautiful; life sparks in him and he attempts tugging his wrists away from Bunnymund's grip, yanking and shoving with as much strength as he can summon. His angry shouts escalate until they crease drastically at the nest's silence, irritating Bunnymund's ears. “HOW can I understand? I don't know what I am- I don't know who I am, or WHY I'm still stuck here with you! They should have found me by now! None of this should have ever happened!”_

 

 _Bunnymund slacks his grip; Jack yanks free and stumbles backwards from the force of it, rubbing his aching wrists. Shaking from sheer anger, he glares cuttingly across the darkness at the Pooka, edging slowly away from him. “I don't care that I'm your doe. I want my life back. I want to live for myself- I don't want to live to serve_ you _, or anyone. You can't do that to me.”_

 

“ _I can, and I could.”_

 

 _Bunnymund closes the distance between them slowly, letting his paws drag up loose dirt and send it rustling back into the ground. “You're still here because you_ want _to be. You're still here because you accepted me as your buck. If I let you back up there, what do you think they'd do to you? They wouldn't give a damn if you slaughtered me and brought me back as a trophy- they'd know you'd been with me long enough to see them for the sniveling cowards they are, and we both know they can't have that. If I hadn't gotten you in the first place, you'd still be running around with the_ children _, hiding in your room and fearing the scorn of your betters because you weren't married all nice and proper like everyone else your age was.”_

 

_Jack stiffens noticeably. “Don't.”_

 

_The nest is filled now with the frantic pulse of Jack's anger: the flowers' glow brightens, reflected so perfectly in Jack's aqueous eyes that they look vividly blue._

 

“ _Do you know how much you worried your mum, Jack?” Bunnymund asks, circling lazily around his doe. “_ Eighteen _years old and you'd never had so much as a kiss. She herself was married when she was fifteen. You made her look bad- as if your reckless behavior wasn't enough already. Didn't you notice how all your stupid little friends went off getting married, starting families and jobs? How they were all starting new lives_ without _you? Did it ever occur to you that they never cared in the first place, pet? Maybe they stuck with you for the fun of it and after marriage were too busy to catch up with you._

 

_Or maybe-”_

 

_Bunnymund draws up close to Jack, grasping a tremulous shoulder in one paw and jerking roughly so that Jack's back hits the ground. Immediately climbing over him, Bunnymund snarls into his terrified face, his own anger reaching its boiling point, “-maybe they finally saw you for the worthless scum their parents told them you were, and they decided to bolt.”_

 

“ _That's not true!” Jack protests, pushing against Bunnymund's shoulders, but the seed has been sown. His voice breaks with ragged disbelief, brow furrowing in pain at the implications that have been made._

 

“ _It is.” Growling now, Bunnymund wards off Jack's shoves and blows with a short, low snarl, enraged at the fight and the topic of his speech. Such long years he endured of seeing the malicious gossip, the brewing hatred and distrust. He would have gutted them all had it not been for the delicacy of the plan, and how the agony of keeping calm had burned him up, forced him to sit and watch as his doe was ridiculed without his knowing. “Had you stayed there, you would have been torn apart by their criticisms and their hate. They knew you were different from the beginning and they_ shunned _you, Jack. They knew you needed help and they offered NONE. I chose to spare you from it because I couldn't STAND another moment of seeing it. I would have made them all suffer if it weren't for you not knowing.”_

 

_Fallen prey to the burn of truth, Jack weeps at length. He slurs out his rage and wets Bunnymund's unchecked kisses with his sorrow, shrieks when his lip is bitten and the wound splits, filling his mouth with blood that in the darkness is shaded black._

 

I I I I I I

 

Solitude now is terrifying, more than it has ever been in the short length of Jack's life.

 

Staring incredulously ahead, Jack feels his heart ache deeply in his chest, like there has just been everything hollowed out of him and left him bare, unfeeling, unfilled. Though he has just seen the Pooka disappear into the darkness it feels as though it has been so very many years since Jack saw him last.

 

It was easier not to realize it before, when they'd been together nearly his every waking moment and there had been nothing to miss. But now-

 

“Bunnymund!” He shouts, a stupid, weak cry in the stale night's air. Nothing stirs at the sound, but that ever-present sensation of being watched makes the hairs on the back of Jack's neck prickle. Every sound he hears is a threat. Every rustle of branch and leaf and grass is imminent death. Everything is dark and he cannot see, he cannot _see_.

 

It is a worse blackness than the kind found in the nest. At least there, he knows where he is. In the soft bedding of the nest he knows he is contained and protected, safe from prying eyes. There, all is still and all that can be sensed is -

 

_( the perfection in knowing that he is HOME, that his buck is there and that nothing else will ever matter so long as he has this. )_

 

Though once he might have been happier to wander alone in the outside, now it is not a pleasurable thing. There are no friends to frolic and chatter with, nor are there familiar rivers to wade in. Out here there is vast nothing, and that is not for him, not anymore. This is not where he belongs. There is threat of death looming behind every tree, every bush. There are creatures that are not his buck that will not give him warning or second chances.

 

Jack staggers to his feet: pain slits terrifically through his legs and hips like scissors to a thin fabric and he cries out as he moves, scrapes his palms on a tree's bark as he stumbles into it and clings for stability. It hurts to move; fire spreads through his nerves like they are dry grass and festers at his flesh. His legs tremble with the effort it takes to keep him aloft, ankles fluttering weakly like they are going to give out from the pain of holding him up. It hurts to move but it is better to hurt than to lie stupidly in the dark and let himself become prey.

 

He can feel the still-hot urine dripping down his legs, pooling between his toes. Its stench is acrid, pungently coiled in his nostrils, reminding him that he is filth, he is marked, he is **owned**.

 

But that is not what troubles him- what does is that there is no sound of footsteps near him, no other sound but that of his breathing and the soft twist of wind across dry leaves.

 

He is alone.

 

Frustrated tears leak past his cold eyelids. The blood that is streaked on his cheeks from Bunnymund's paws and muzzle has already begun to dry, flaking irritably on his skin and shriveling to a rusted tint.

 

_( it is not his blood )_

 

It only makes sense that he should be panicked, Jack reasons. These have been so many long months of Bunnymund's constant, stifling presence, always a paw on his shoulder or hip or waist or neck, always the slide of fur against him or the whiskers dancing across the lobe of his ear. In all that heavy large darkness there has always been Bunnymund, the scent of him lingering when he is not. Without him, Jack is left empty and mute, borne again to his anxious fears of loneliness, not belonging.

 

With Bunnymund, Jack thinks as he shuffles lamely past the fly-buzzing corpse they'd encountered on their arrival, he'd belonged. To him, for him.

 

Here, outside, he is nothing, _alone_.

 

He walks in a daze, slowed by the pains Bunnymund has inflicted on him and made hesitant by the surrounding silence. For months now it has been only he and Bunnymund; he is not sure if earlier he had been more astonished at seeing Philipe there in the woods or at the sound of his voice, his very human, _normal_ appearance. Since his capture all he has heard, felt, or seen is his buck-

 

( _voice scratchy and silken all at once,_ _accent like nothing Jack has ever heard before, cutting words at the ends and lilting them high up, drawing lips back over sharp, long teeth. markings on fur he wants to wrap his hands around and squeeze._ _eyes captivating, arms thick with strength and proud,_ _strong_ _neck drawn back with haughty contempt, lips that when curled upwards filled Jack with unbelievable ecstasy,_ _jaw strong enough to crack his neck in two_ )

 

-without him here, Jack feels lost, left without guidance to struggle in the filth of his own detrimental existence. Can it be that what is happening to him is _good_? That after his makeshift baptism, he has begun to piece himself together, instead of apart? Is that why he has begun to feel so different, so unlike himself- because with Bunnymund-

 

with his _buck_ -

 

things are finally better for him?

 

When he is with Bunnymund, there is no fear of scorn or judgment. There are no scathing looks sent his way, no more hushed whispers and too-curious glances at him. There is no one to hurt him with contemptuous looks, and the only gazes he receives are nearly always the kinds that strip him of breath from the devotion layered in them. Now that he knows, Jack no longer fears his dreams, nor the truth of why he is here. He understands it, and he accepts it, however timidly. Bunnymund has cared for him and fed him, proved his admittedly twisted devotion time and time again.

 

And who is to say Jack does not love it?

 

( _each time,_

 

_each drag of that shadowy nose up his cheek and down his neck makes him shiver in ill-hidden delight, each kiss that ends with a suck and pull of his lower lip that leaves him hopelessly wilted, he cannot help but fall further into the customs. He begins to look forward to the kisses, curiously moving his own lips to match Bunnymund's pace out of what he tells himself is curiousity,_

 

_each time,_

 

_he finds himself falling deeper into that shadow within himself,_

 

_deeper into the blank nothing where his slate has been drawn with mathematical precision and his every string is loosely hung, ready to be played by only his buck's fingers )_

 

Out in this new world of lonely wood, Jack is not surprised to find that he misses the touches. It has been less than an hour since he was left and the loss of Bunnymund's presence burns at him, fraying the threads that keep him together. If it meant bringing Bunnymund back then he would gladly accept this punishment as his, admit that his lesson has been learned and that he will obey this time for good. He has had enough of all this mental conflict, all the endless nights that he lay crying in his fateful dreams. He does not want any more of this pain and confusion; had he not accepted his fate that night before at the lake? Had he not accepted his role as the doe? Would it not be wonderful to lie within the ease of it, to kiss and be kissed and worship and be worshiped in return?

 

Can he finally succumb to the knowledge of it all, that this is his fate and he _must_ accept it?

 

He wants to be rid of these open woods and their darkness, the frail chance that he might stumble across a group of travelers or even a lone huntsman.

 

More damning than that, he longs for the Pooka's return.

 

The forest around him makes no noise. The trees, privy to his sufferings and utterly unconcerned, stretch ever onwards towards the moon, branches splayed like arms to receive their Messiah. Jack bites his lip, chewing the soft pink flesh of the inside as he thinks: Is Bunnymund his tormentor, or his savior? Truly he has felt like both at times. But which is he more predominantly- or is he a mix of both? Can Jack beg his forgiveness, should he demand it (and surely he will)?

 

That he has been left alone still cuts like a slap to the face, and in spite of himself Jack's lip trembles pathetically. Well, he has finally gotten what he wanted, hasn't he? He'd said he wanted to be alone, away from Bunnymund, and now he is. No _buck_ to protect him, no family to comfort him, no knowledge on this area whatsoever to guide him home.

 

Home: he thinks of the nest, _their_ nest. Of sleeping bathed in dried kisses, fur pressing in from all sides and paws holding him tightly even in the haze of sleep, unwilling to release him. Bedding of earth and dusted bone, old fur that pads beneath his hips and neck for comfort. He thinks of the manner in which Bunnymund kisses him awake every morning without fail, the way he shifts closer into Jack's spine and his heavy paw smoothes down the side of Jack's ribs, rubbing age-roughened pads into the softness of his skin, sparking warmth. He thinks of the way Bunnymund lowered him into the water that night several days ago, and the manner in which Jack had cried from gratitude afterwards, reluctant to wash the lake's water off his body for fear of losing the moon's shine on his chilled flesh.

 

_Do you see now, why you deserved what he did to you? Why he punished you and left you?_

 

Jack swallows around the guilt that has accumulated in his throat like bile, self loathing accompanying it in the form of hardened fists. “Yes.”

 

The voice questioning him sounds pleased. _Tell me why you deserved punishment, Jack._

 

“Because I disobeyed.”

 

It has gone to an eerie whisper in his ears now; there is no brush of lips or breath on his skin, only those words like dry rustling leaves, like the snake-like roots that curl and wither over dead ground, troubling and consoling his dubious heart all at once. _You admit you are the cause of your friend's death. You accept the blame and that your punishment was well-meant?_

 

He wonders if the voice originates from the white orb in the sky, that supposed entity from which he has come. Tears ruin his eyesight- blinded further by the thickness of them, Jack puts out his hand and tries feeling his way through the darkness, and it trembles aloft in the dark, white vulnerable limb made weak by the abuse he suffered only moments before, and weeks and years all along.

 

“Yes.”

 

Fingers trembling, Jack feels his way around a large trunk, dragging his bare soles warily across the ground before him to ensure steady ground. His eyes are wide open, pupils stretched in search of light. His feet and fingers sting from the cold but there is nothing to warm them in, no fur to splay them into and clutch.

 

He is alone, and he is without his buck.

 

The forest is dark, and he can still smell Philipe's remains burning in his nostrils, he can still hear the swarm of flies buzzing about the unnamed corpse. In the colorless void of the world above their nest it is all he can see and remember: the occasional flash of green-glowing eyes flickering through to haunt him.

 

The forest yields to his feet: seemingly content with his soundless fear, it remains bumpy but level enough for Jack to make his way through, throwing up no roots or stones to hinder him.. It bends softly beneath his feet like carpeted moss, comforting his pained feet and easing the trembling in his thighs. It hurts to move, it blisters like he has burns along his spine. He can feel blood staining his already ruined neck, he can feel Bunnymund's semen drying stiffly on his skin. It reminds him of lying in the grass, roots roping him into submission as his buck bit him til he bled, forced his way into Jack's body brutal and fierce.

 

He is afraid of the dark. He is afraid that he is alone.

 

He wants comfort, he wants fur sliding between his fingers and filling his palms when he grips it.

 

_He wants his buck._

 

Night falls like ink on thirsty paper- Jack watches as the black spills wetly across the sky, pooling into the pockets of air between the clouds until it has settled, drunk up by the greedy bright sky.

 

He wanders, and he muchly resembles a lost lamb, bleating pathetically for his shepherd to return to him and guide him home. Torment rips his mind to tiny, useless shreds. He thinks of Philipe and he weeps bitterly, gritting his teeth at the guilt that follows. If only he had behaved!

 

The forest is resonant with tree's whispers; his shoulders twitch at the sounds, eyes flying suspiciously upwards to find the sources of the mocking sounds.

 

_Do you think you deserve redemption? If your buck were to return and offer his forgiveness, Jack, would you take it?_

 

Jack shakes his head, shuddering with his suppressed weeping. The cold is all but gone to him now, his senses far more occupied with his shame. He stares down at the redness of his bare toes and watches as teardrops drop down onto the tops of his feet, their tiny wet splatters reminding him that there are nerves there, and that he can still feel.

 

“No.” He whimpers. He has caused the death of an innocent. There is no knowing how many others Bunnymund has killed in his name. “I wouldn't deserve it.”

 

Y _ou're right,_ the voice agrees softly. _You wouldn't._

 

He has not walked far- his feet have carried him in a wide circle around the area, bringing him purposely back to the same space where his troubles had begun. Paying no mind to the cruelty of that truth, Jack drops to his knees and scrawls at the earth with cold hands, half hoping that his fingers will magically unearth the opening to the tunnel Bunnymund disappeared through. The corpse with its cloud of flies sits watchfully nearby, bloated and torn open just as Philipe was. The bodies' combined stenches accumulate even in the open woods, worsening the state of Jack's throat and sanity. It drains as he digs, shivering fretfully in the lessening dark. His actions, previously so deadened by the shock of his abandonment, are renewed now with fierce vigor. His temple shines with perspirationand the voice in his mind continues to question and goad him, but Jack deafens himself to it. He wants everything to return to normal. He wants the pain in his body to go away. He does not want to be out here on his own. He wants to be back in the tunnel, in the nest, anywhere the dark is not as thick as it is here.

 

But rational thought trumps his temporary insanity, and Jack slowly forces himself to stop. He is like a dog searching for its master now, some stupid beast hell-bent on returning to the comfort of a warm hearth and an always-filled bowl.

 

Kneeling over the dirt bent in such a position leaves his spine curled awkwardly, hurting. Woozy,Jack stumbles to his feet and reclines against a tree's trunk, knowing full well that he ought to climb it to ensure safety rather than to stay on the ground like easy pickings, but the pain has spread all along his body and the thought of raising his arms and hoisting himself up is torture.

 

The Moon stares coldly down at him, and Jack says “You've ruined my life.” to it, as though it is listening.

 

He receives no answer. He was not expecting one.

 

The fatigue becomes too much to bear. The pain still rings dully throughout his nerves, but it is the relentless downwards drag of his eyelids that has Jack startling awake in a panic, remembering always that Bunnymund is not the only dangerous thing in the woods, that he can be attacked, that he can be watched.

 

He finds he is reluctant to leave the area, no matter how disgusting the stench is or the punishments that have taken place. It is safer to stay: Bunnymund will perhaps expect to still find him here, and he knows not what creatures and lands lie in wait.

 

It takes a rough half hour of searching the dark to find a small, crumbling alcove beneath a thicket of brush and fallen log, nestled underneath a shoot of slender-trunked trees. He climbs inside, not minding the rot and sprawl of leaves, limbs heavy still with his grief. It is not in the immediate area of where he had been left but he knows Bunnymund will easily smell him out.

 

He takes the precaution of hauling more clusters of dead branch and leaves over the log that hides him, aware that in this impenetrable darkness his skin is a beacon. Weary and shivering, Jack falls asleep at last, the strain in his eyes fading over the hours as he rests, however fretful his dreams become. Forgetting the tired ache of his feet and the cutting pain in his hips, he falls quickly into dreams.

 

I I I I I I

 

_A soft, subtle purr._

 

_Semen drenches his thighs, spills quietly out of him, tickles Jack's skin with its warmth. He has gone quiet now but the fear still eats at him, and Bunnymund keeps on moving, relentless. Jack tries to shift but his thighs are held tight, and a growl is released at the action, like Bunnymund thinks he is trying to escape. The thrusts become harder, more pointed, and with each one Jack feels himself breaking, his feverish mind buzzing into a frenzy as he is filled, filled, filled, left gaping and filled again._

 

_He comes with a short cry and slumps boneless against the ground. He does not try to stop Bunnymund because he knows he cannot. He lacks the physical strength and, more importantly, the will._

 

 _The fear has left his mind in a state of disrepair, and he tries clinging protectively to what is left but_ oh _,_

 

_he does not want the movement to stop._

 

_He does not want to stop hearing those sounds._

 

I I I I I I

 

( because he lacks the comfort sounds of his buck's breathing and sleepy purring, he sleeps fitfully, waking on two separate occasions,

 

the first to twist desperately into his own hand upon vivid recollections of hours before, foolishly rubbing and whimpering, committing himself to each memory for severe lack of the real thing, wishing he had accepted those touches during the happening so as not to have brought such unlucky loneliness upon himself, spending himself into his already-stained blouse and lapsing, not in the least bit satisfied, back to slumber,

 

and the second, in tears.

 

and though he is too heavily asleep at one point to notice, for an hour or so there is the careful trod of familiar paws around him, circling his makeshift sanctuary and sniffing the air above, an intense survey of the area to make sure it is safe )

 

I I I I I I

 

_When the streets outside have been lit and he is allowed to share the bed, his buck's eyes look yellow. He has learned to keep the glow hidden but Jack knows better. He takes the bestubbled jaw in his palm, tilting it gently to the side, directing him to keep his gaze on Jack-_

 

_and there, just behind those humanized irises, lies a faint reflection, embedded deep behind the guise. There is such a silence between them that he can hear the click of wet skin as Bunnymund blinks._

 

_Looking closer, Jack can see the duplicate. Just beneath the mockery of a human iris, there lies his buck's truer one, a vivider green and larger size. The light hits in such a way that he can see both, but his eyes are more drawn to the original, watching it seize on his own form and slit wantingly._

 

“ _Get rid of it.” Jack says. “I hate it.”_

 

_And his buck laughs, and blinks, and the mock-ups are gone, and his eyes are free to Jack's hungry looks, and the dim glow has returned, even in his human shape. “You don't want me to hide them, pet?”_

 

_Jack shakes his head. “Not from me.”_

 

I I I I I I

 

It feels like it Jack has only acquired a handful of minutes' rest before a voice he does not recognize is hissing into his mind like steam, stopping his dreams abruptly.

 

_Get up._

 

Drawing himself upright, Jack winces at the catch and pop of vertebrae. His limbs are ashen with cold, joints creaking unhappily as he moves. Daylight meets his eyes: panic rouses him immediately, half-prompting him out of his hiding place. How many hours have passed? What is this new voice?

 

Tentatively, Jack searches the area around him. Every branch and blade of grass is bathed in gold, glowing brightly as if it is all meant to reassure him and warm his bones. But there is something heavy missing; Jack's breath catches in his throat.

 

“Bunnymund-?” He calls, disoriented as a newborn foal.

 

The voice reappears, and he realizes it is the same one as always, but the dire tone to its usual smug condescension is so new it seems almost unfamiliar.

 

_Get up, now. Get UP._

 

Disconcerted at the voice's passive urgency, Jack grows hesitant. If there is danger, is it not safer to hide and be absolutely still? If he runs, all attention will be drawn immediately to him. Jack yawns blearily, fights the urge to curl up in the grass and return to his sleep. His eyes have never before felt so exhausted. He likely strained his vision far too much the previous night with all his searching.

 

The world suddenly jolts past Jack, and he goes very still. Around him, dead leaves drag along the ground on borrowed gusts of wind.

 

_Get into the trees. NOW._

 

His fingers go cold at the tips; Jack presses them to his lips, breathing on them to mask the shivering. Inside his heart, there is terror burning. In his mind, the voice begins to shout.

 

 _Do you aim to die, stupid boy?_ GO.

 

Snapping out of his stupor, Jack yanks himself drearily from his hiding place, heart drumming in his ears. Nearby, there are animal sounds: paws on dry ground, heavy body brushing past fallen leaves and debris. Sniffing.

 

Searching.

 

For a split second, Jack's heart leaps wildly in his chest, and he is about to step forward when there is a searing flash of pain in his mind, warning him away. He whimpers and clutches at his head, ducking behind a large tree.

 

_It is not your buck._

 

_**Hide**._

 

“What is it?” Jack whispers, and his answer is a short growl just on the other side of the trunk he hides behind, and the sound of shifting paws.

 

Filled with icy dread, Jack's knees threaten to go weak as he turns in the opposite direction and runs. In his mind the voice bellows displeasure at him for not obeying when he should have, and there is the thundering sound of a heavy something following him. It is almost tempting to risk a look behind him but he knows if he does that, he loses his head start and it is all over in seconds.

 

Breath coming out in harsh puffs of cloudy air, Jack forces his body in motion, going as fast as he can to avoid any attack. The ground beneath is bumpy and unbearably cold, and he is going to die, he is going to falter mid-step and fall to bites and blows from god knows _what_ -

 

_Get higher up. HIGHER, where he will not catch you._

 

It will only prolong the inevitable, Jack thinks, but this time he obeys, and the sensation of following an order in a time of erratic horror calms him somewhat.

 

He lunges towards the first tree to his right, crying out in pain and pleading under his breath for a quick escape, already reddened footsoles quickly becoming scratched up and bruised by rough bark. He scrambles up the first low branch, knocking loose bits of bark with his nails, his palms growing sticky with sap. He's making far, far too much noise to go by undetected but that is what Jack is relying on; he breathes hard and lets his pulse quicken because it is impossible that his buck has really left him. Bunnymund _must_ hear the danger he is in, he _must_ come to help him.

 

The enraged creature bays at the foot of Jack's tree, hulking up onto its haunches to drag its claws down the ragged trunk, snarling as it goes. Before Jack can climb up to another branch, the tree shudders as though in pain, leaves rustling and branches snapping. Alarmed, Jack looks down to see he has unfortunately picked a short tree: the creature begins knocking its thick body against its trunk, clawing at the roots in an effort to loose it from the ground and send Jack flying.

 

Jack does not give it the chance.

 

Quietly, he creeps to opposite branches away from where his attacker beats at his temporary sanctuary, regrettably inching higher off the ground though he needs the distance, bracing himself and sucking in deep breaths to replenish what he has lost, steadying his nerves for another run.

 

He drops out of the leaves like a stone, landing with a pained shout on his heels. It is a lucky landing even with the pain but he spares it no thought. The creature gives chase, howling out a rabid snarling note at its joy of a chase, more than ready to destroy that which he can sense is forbidden. As Jack runs, he hears the ominous crash of leaves and underbrush resounding around them, winces at the pressure of hard ground and rocks and sharp branches beneath his bare soles.

 

_FASTER, HE IS NEARLY UPON YOU-_

 

Determined to reach the area where Bunnymund had first left him and hoping wildly that he will find his salvation there, Jack does not hear the sudden quiet behind him nor the sharp intake of breath that the wolf-beast gives. He has no time to scream until he is flattened against the ground beneath the monster's paws and his sweaty temple has been struck mightily against frozen earth, putting his struggle to a stop before it even began. He screams, heart working like a trapped rabbit.

 

Its breath smells terrible; saliva drips down from its dull teeth and threatens to stain Jack's skin. Though not as large in size as the Pooka, this creature's weight presses down on Jack's lungs eagerly, sending the air swiftly out of him. Lying on his side, half-crushed under its stocky paws, Jack cannot get a good glimpse of its face: his cheek is pressed roughly into the grass, scraping the flushed skin and leaving blood smeared on the grass below.

 

There is no telling why it is taking this moment to observe him, but he is sure that when it sniffs him its eyes (so different from Bunnymund's, so unaware and wild) spark in recognition. Its breath on Jack's neck are so unlike what Jack is used to from the Pooka that his heart attempts to crawl up into his throat: all this time he has been captured, he has become used to the heavy, adoring breaths on his skin, the long-suffering licks that savor what taste lies hidden on his skin, the barely-restrained snaps of teeth that speak of daring hunger, forced restraint. Here, there is only an unmistakable want for blood and torn flesh.

 

He is going to be gutted.

 

Breathing hard, Jack throws a hand out to his side, snatching a rock half the size of his fist and striking it against the thing's small skull. The blow is good, but not powerful enough: there is no give of bone, no shatter nor spray of blood. There is only an answering yelp of pain and then there are claws ripping through his exposed side, and the pain ruins him.

 

Jack flinches away from its sharp snout and screams out a name, one he is sure will be his last.

 

He is last aware of claws flashing down towards his throat and then there is a large impact to the monstrous body above him and a deafening roar that leaves his ears ringing uncomfortably, and in an instant it is gone. Jack's vision goes blinding, _white_ ; squinting, he realizes he is lying on his back still, staring directly up at the brilliant sun.

 

Quickly averting his eyes, Jack pulls himself up with a short grunt, feeling something trickle coolly down his neck and ribcage. There is a terrible cacophony of sounds to his right; dazed, he looks toward it, feeling more battered than before.

 

Bunnymund wrestles Jack's assailant to the ground, snarling loudly enough for it to resemble thunder. It sounds as though he is speaking, making a threat in a language Jack cannot understand, but his lips do not move to form words. His claws are out and Jack can see the sharpness of them from even this distance, the cold precise intent to maim and destroy. The creature lets out an amused sound and forces his way out of Bunnymund's grip with a sharp twist, lunging back to sink his teeth into the Pooka's shoulder, pulling a strangled cry from Bunnymund's throat.

 

“No!” Jack screams, and in the moment that the creature turns to look at him Bunnymund roars and charges into its side, cuts his claws deep into the side of its neck, and its howl of rage releases Bunnymund's shoulder. The pain only deals out its actions harder, faster: the two creatures, closely matched in size, snarl and claw at each other, and every hiss and grunt of pain his buck releases has Jack trembling in fright, unsure of whether he should run or hide.

 

_This is not a place for you, Jack. Leave. He will find you when it is done._

 

“I'm alive?” He asks, trembling, touching fingers to the back of his neck where he can feel singed, ruptured skin. The flesh of his side feels irritated, aflame. He feels the blood spilling and simultaneously does not, like all sensation in his body has gone numb. He can hear the two legendary beasts in all their froth-mouthed grandeur, feel the slow release and expansion of his lungs as he breathes, but he is so sure it is all just a dream- perhaps he is still asleep in the nest, or worse, in the woods, cold and left on his own.

 

_Your buck has made sure of it. Go, now._

 

Dazed from the strenuous blow to his head and in no fit condition to run, Jack tries dragging himself away from the scene, grunting as he pulls himself onto his knees. It is tedious, treacherous work, and as he hauls himself up into a tree's thick branch he feels a burning gaze on his shoulders, and he knows Bunnymund is checking to make sure that he is alright. Comforted by that fleeting gaze, Jack situates himself securely as he can in the cradle of branches and waits, struggling to keep himself awake. Pressing his hand to his hurting side, he leans limply against what he can; he can hear the sounds of their fighting down below, the dull thuds and crunches of blows against weak spots and ripping of flesh.

 

Jack does not worry. He knows his buck is doing well.

 

I I I I I I

 

_Wake up now, Jack._

 

Jack stirs, hot cheek stinging as it rasps against tree bark. He feels feverish, too hot. Waking up, he thinks to himself, will take too much effort, energy he does not have. Has it all gone leaking out of him with the blood he has spilled on all these bare branches?

 

The sound of soft rustling greets his ears, then the familiar stench of blood and fur. Following that, there is a voice, and it floods Jack with such thick emotion his body reacts instantly, forcing itself to wake.

 

“Time to get up, pet.”

 

Jack opens his eyes.

 

The world seems too bright. There is no snow around and though there is no chill, he can feel hints of it against the wetness of his eyes, the open tears in his flesh. Bunnymund stares up at him, a faint smile on his lips. He stands stretched up on his hind legs, just the right height to reach the bough in which Jack sits. And though his nose is specked with blood and there is a bloody rip in a long stalk of ear and he seems strained, his green eyes glow bright, looking genial. Where only hours before he had been furious, forcing himself onto Jack and smirking smug and cruel before he'd stepped away into the dark, now he is all perfect smiles, whiskers twitching almost endearingly.

 

( _or maybe it is because of Jack's light-headedness that he does not notice the way those eyes lose that bright spark when Bunnymund glances down at the hand clutching bloody skin and slit dangerously for short seconds_ )

 

Stunned, Jack's brow crinkles in confusion. He had expected anything but this: a paw tugging crudely at his hair, a demand for Jack to behave and submit yet again. He had not expected this

 

_warmth_

 

to come spilling slowly inside him like honey from a jar, cozy and dulling the fear in him, flushing his cheeks. He had not expected such relief, even with all his regretful tears earlier. It is not overpowering, but an urge to fling himself forward into Bunnymund's hold makes Jack ache desperately for the ability to move without hurting.

 

As if sensing this, Bunnymund's eyes go soft, and Jack swallows quietly against the lump in his throat. He thinks of the fierce comfort often given in Bunnymund's kisses, and he wants more. He thinks of the pure devotion in those odd eyes and he wants to weep with shame at slighting his buck yet _again_. “Ready to go home?” Bunnymund murmurs observantly.

 

Tears moisten Jack's gaze; he squeezes shut his eyes and blinks rapidly against the sting of them, because there is no need to cry now, because he is safe, his buck has come for him and if this is all a dream then he would like to die here, happy in what his mind indulgently projects.

 

Heaven help him, he has come so undone, he has been unmade.

 

“Yes.” He answers.

 

Bunnymund says something to him then, but Jack is not awake enough to hear it. As he is carefully extracted from the tree and latched securely into his buck's arms, Jack loses consciousness in short moments. He loosens like a ragdoll, eyelids sliding closed over his bloodshot, tired eyes.

 

Though he knows it is time wasted, Bunnymund pauses a moment, observing. He takes in every detail, every new scent on Jack's skin from his time spent alone. He closes his paw over Jack's wound and thanks his white-glowing god that there has been no damage done to the boy's marking, no life-threatening bites or gashes. In doing all this he had known the risks, and he had stayed close by always, listening- it is good to instill fear but it is not good to let it thoroughly damage. For all his threats and fury he would never have _dared_ to let his precious doe suffer alone.

 

Walking as quickly as he can, he tucks his doe into his bloody chest and opens a tunnel. The journey takes longer than it normally would because of their combined injuries; he has faced far worse, but the shock of seeing his doe so ragged makes him cautious. He knows he will be able to save Jack and that is good enough to calm him, but even then he knows that once he has tended to Jack he will make another trip back to that new graveyard site, where he will take that stupid beast's remains (a _waheela_ , of all things- stupid, obstinate creatures, always looking to challenge him for what is  _his_ ) and grind them into the floor with his fists. Should he return to find its severed head still amongst the grass, he will clean it out and leave the skull hanging on a tree he has long been decorating in a country to the far east, where the stories of him are far odder than what is passed around here.

 

Upon arrival, he sets Jack into the nest and the slew of flowers that have creeped round the soft bedding pulse together in a brighter than usual show of welcome, and relief, for neither buck nor nest is ever at peace until the doe is returned.

 

Considering the exquisite delicacy of Jack's human mortality, it will take long hours of work to clean and stitch Jack's wounds back together. A faster, safer option is asking the Moon for aid, and perhaps he will, should the work become too difficult for his cumbersome paws, but Bunnymund wants this task for his own- he wants to be the one to make the repairs, to nurse Jack back to consciousness.

 

It must be him, he vows as he strokes Jack's cheek, noticing with immense pleasure that in all the time Jack had been out there he had not once attempted to clean himself of his buck's dried fluids, sticky and matted all along his form. His clothing is rusty and bled through now, shredded in some places from the attack, and his hair is mussed and sweaty and his poor little feet look sore. He will need much rest in the days to come.

 

Bunnymund begins a recitation in the lowest breaths of voice he can muster, the words ancient and pathetically unused until now. He strokes his paws over Jack, undressing him carefully, using the rags to mop up the bleeding and preparing him for another trip to a lake above for cleaning. The flowers bend towards the two of them, offering more light.

 

He is not wholly content with the way things went but the results are spectacular, fantastic. He'd of course noticed the tears of relief in Jack's eyes, hidden above in the old tree. He had watched over him as he slept, listened as he took himself in hand and mewled at the put-upon memories of the forced mating, and he had known Jack's regret as the taste of rainwater on his tongue, tinged with metal.

 

Jack lies unconscious, dulled to his pains by his buck's mercy. Despite his injuries he glows healthily in the light, and Bunnymund is pleased to see that Jack's marking has all this time remained free of blood, standing out amongst the reddened flesh the way it is meant to, forever a sigil of protection and ownership.

 

The doe will never be taken from him again.

 


	14. Towed From the Wreck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has tasted but some mere handfuls of life without his buck, and he has found them wanting, terrible. As the Pooka pulls back his rage and begins again to work hungry teeth at his neck, Jack finds that his words have thrilled him, iced his blood and left him shivering in unspoken delight, for there is nothing like knowing that you are wanted so terribly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should mention the priest's name isn't any sort of allusion to North, I just thought the name fit.
> 
> Disclaimer: As stated in the previous chapter, while this fic is heavily inspired by the works, the underlined passages (i.e., "This is an example”) are taken directly from American conceptual artist Jenny Holzer's Inflammatory Essays. I claim no ownership over them whatsoever, and use them only for storyline aid.
> 
> Chapter title taken from [Houses-A Quiet Darkness.](https://youtu.be/BHsZ6I6yuDo)

_If he is dreaming, he does not know, because everything in the moment is perfection and there has never been such satisfaction coiled in his heart the way it is now, glowing with such warmth that it matches the heat of the body atop him._

 

_They do nothing but lie in the dark. There are unspoken words between them, lingering in the paths shining claws leave along his scalp, delicate caresses. Their bodies lie pressed together in grass soft as breath, and the Moon shines down so intensely upon their forms that Jack fears he will go blind from it, and so he turns away, buries his face in fur._

 

_Words are spoken then, accented and gentle, but he has no ears for them, not when his heart trembles in his chest like a branch in cold wind. He babbles them like a stream, ceaseless and gushing, low in volume but riddled with vigor._

 

_The Moon listens_

 

_as the doe describes how he will build a shrine for his buck,_

 

_and how he will knit his buck's shedded furs together to drape over his skin,_

 

_and how he will lie atop his beautiful buck and pay his respects with his lips._

 

_A growl of contentment breaks his vows. Large fingers tangle into white hair and tug sharply, and there is a short cry of pain, or delight._

 

_It is but a dream, a vision granted to aid and comfort the doe in his induced sleep, but outside the realm of sleep and above the nest, the village's sky takes on a blacker shade of night, and the stars wink out of commission for but a single second, gone unnoticed to nearly all._

 

 

 

I I I I I I

 

Waking in darkness is not unusual for him. It never has been; Jack wakes slowly and his first action is to wonder why it should have ever unsettled him as much as it did those times he woke in tears. It is familiar now, more than anything.

 

Jack blinks steadily to consciousness and finds himself bedded in earth and fur, blind but for the pale blue glow of the nest's flora. Breath rasps dully in his throat and he coughs slightly, working to wet his passage and ease the task of breath. His ribs, he is surprised to find, do not feel bruised or splintered the way he remembers from his dreams.

 

When his sight has ceased blurring, he looks down to his feet and examines himself. He finds himself dressed cleanly, outfitted in pants just the right size for his awkward length of legs and shirt-buttons all shining neatly up at him, like they have been polished. His feet remain bare.

 

Shivering from the cold, he looks then to his side, and upon noticing that he is alone sits up with an odd assortment of pops from long-unused joints. He knows he is in the nest as well as he knows that he is unmistakably alive. He can feel its velvet earth solidly underneath his body, and the tranquil burn of light in the pistils of those pale flowers. Jack shudders and digs his fingers into the dirt, straining to move more comfortably. He feels like he has not moved in years, like his body has been shuttered away into a cramped space.

 

But there is none of that here. The nest is wide and spacious, and his body takes better to the movement as the minutes pass.

 

A whisper of panic crawls into his throat, echoing into a chalky noise of confusion. It is difficult to find his voice- he searches within himself, occasionally working his throat and tongue experimentally, rediscovering the right angles and movements to produce sound. He tries clearing his throat and coughs drily instead, whispering out a ghost of a name.

 

“Bunnymund?”

 

Is it his desperation to see the Pooka that feeds his starved eyes, showing him fleeting glimpses of what he thinks is the blur of green glowing eyes, or is that really his buck in the distance, hidden away? He makes to move forward, out of the nest and the flowers' glow, and a sound comes to his ears like a balm to a burn and all at once his unease has dissipated.

 

It is the quiet lift and thud of paws on soft ground made familiar to Jack from all his years of black dreams.

 

There is no fear to hinder him. It cannot plague him now, not when there are those comfort sounds coming ever closer and there is not the faintest hint of a threat to them, not like before. They come from a short distance away; Jack squints in a poor attempt to see past the inky void that lies ahead, finding only obscure shapes and foreign shadow. He settles tiredly onto his side, limbs aching from the irritating strain of holding himself up. He does not worry at his lack of sight, for there is none other from whom this noise could originate from.

 

The quiet footfalls stop, and Jack strains to listen in the roaring silence.

 

“Where are you?” He mumbles.

 

Then there is a paw on his cheek, and the measured weight of a soft body comes upon him like a fog over a lake, and with a shuddering gasp and blatant disregard of his stiff limbs, Jack flings his arms outwards and clutches tightly at what he can reach. His fingers dig hard into his pelt and his arms wrap tight around a thick neck, and his tears track down his cheeks and moisten the downy fur of Bunnymund's chest as he clings. His heart protests vehemently at the cage of his chest, and Jack feels should he open his mouth it would come surging out without hesitance, eager to swallow his buck whole. The blessed heat of his body- oh, it burns Jack, makes his palms _sting_ , but he wants more.

 

The hours spent above in forced solitude left him starved for touch, for his buck: to have him now, when he thought he would have been left for dead, leaves him speechless in his gratitude.

 

Purring loudly, Bunnymund enfolds his doe into his chest, chin immediately nestling into his hair. He gives Jack his heat readily, imposes it so quickly upon him that Jack whimpers and begins to shift somewhat uncomfortably- but Jack, still tortured by the memories of _cold_ and _alone_ , does not attempt to pull away. The embrace is hard; Jack allows the Pooka to bury him deep within his chest, balling himself up to fit closer. A hiccup rides his breaths, and he works to shove down his sob even as his body trembles.

 

“Rest.” Bunnymund murmurs.

 

The sight and feel of him loosen something in Jack: like a marionette with freshly cut strings, he goes slack, numb with the fresh relief that he is saved, still breathing.

 

“Don't leave again.” He whispers, fresh fear enveloping him. “Please.”

 

Bunnymund's purring grows louder; Jack goes still as the Pooka's hard chin digs into his scalp, wincing in pain at the rough press of the scent glands upon his hair. The noises coming from the creature's throat sound almost like growls, but his actions do not suggest anger.

 

“So long as you don't give me a reason, I won't.” He rumbles, making Jack's heart clench.

 

“I'll behave.” He promises, devout; he turns his head, rubbing back as he is chinned. Another marking, like the ones given to him before he had been left alone. The piss and the semen have been washed from his body, he knows; he cannot feel their slick, sticky textures drying on his skin.

 

( _something inside him wilts sadly at the thought_ )

 

He will take the marking- he'll take it all, if it means being safe, held, wanted. All of this, all these things he has dreamed of for years, comes settling comfortably into his skin, and he soaks it up, desperate for every last shred. He has not felt so good in so long. “I'll behave, I promise.”

 

A firm handful of his hair is taken up, and Jack shivers as he is pulled back to properly face the Pooka. His eyes are fierce, livid with something Jack cannot name. Is he still angry for Jack's insolence, or is he pleased at the new willingness?

 

“Will you?” He retorts, lips pulling back to bare a snarl to Jack's wide eyes. “You've promised me such before and done _nothing_ to fulfill it.”

 

There is rage in his eyes; Jack does what he can to quell it. He'll not have his buck angered again- anger means punishment, and that is not what he wants, never again. He grasps the Pooka's arms, apologies burning on his lips, but before he can speak he is being crowded again into his chest, but this time facing forward, head guided roughly beneath a greedy chin.

 

“You've been asleep a month.” Bunnymund murmurs into his crown. He strokes a paw over Jack's neck listlessly; his voice resonates with pleasure, and a relief of his own that wets Jack's eyes messily. “This is your fifth month here, pet.”

 

Questions crowd Jack's tongue, each one clamoring to be voiced. What is this white noise that resounds in his skull? Does this information frighten him, or does it please him? Why has he been asleep, what has happened in all this time?

 

“It feels like longer.” Jack admits, when he had found his breath again.

 

He does not lie; it does feel like it has been so much longer. Five months is by no means a short time, but he feels it has all passed within short, graceless seconds. How long the days seemed to him when he still cowered in fear- was it really that long ago that he was first brought here, deposited to a bedding of flowers and earth? Was it really so long ago that he cowered and sniveled in fear of his buck, certain he would in some way return to the village?

 

The Pooka rests his head on Jack's shoulder, taking his wrists in one paw to hold to his lips. There is a peculiar twinge of resistance in Jack's belly, a tiny fearful spark, and then it is gone, smothered in bliss when there is a kiss over his knuckles. Jack lets the fingers stay around his wrist; he cannot fight them, and he will not. More and more often he finds it is deliciously satisfying to be held this roughly.

 

( _to be contained and shuttered away_ )

 

“Only because you've let your fear become an obstacle between us.” He reminds Jack. “Do you still fear me?”

 

Jack's gut twists sharply, and he falls victim to a new lack of breath. He looks round at their surroundings, their nest, and feels such a sharp hurt in his chest that his face momentarily crumples in pain.

 

“Yes,” he says, and the confession makes him blister in shame; the voice in his head hisses _After all that you have done, you are right to fear him._

 

Bunnymund does not seem bothered by the affirmation; his voice remains even and patient. “But do you care for me?”

 

Jack closes his eyes and lets his cheek rest against the Pooka's chest. It is easy to remember all the long days in which he spat protests and beat his fists in useless outrage over the creature's body, the nights he sobbed himself to sleep and the mornings outside splayed out in the grass, pinned beneath a harder body and forced to withstand the hungry bites into his flesh. It is easy to recall the way his heart pounded manically at any sign of displeasure in that whiskered visage, the numbing dread that swallowed him whole in the torturous days he was left alone in the nest to wait for the creature to return from a hunt.

 

But freshest in his mind is the caress of a loving paw over his head, the careful embrace of strong arms as he was lifted from a bough and carried to their sanctuary.

 

He opens his eyes and tilts his head to the side to better look at the Pooka, and says “Yes.”

 

Bunnymund smiles, and the effects of it on Jack are devastating. His heart and body soften as one, all tension bled out at each contact point along their bodies. Though he has seen this before, the sight of such a curve to his buck's lips is newly bewitching to Jack. He last saw it before falling prey to the pain of his wounds, and here he is now seeing it again, having woken to find them both healed and safe.

 

“Then you'll know already, that I care for you as well.” Bunnymund says. “Do you understand that?”

 

Jack cannot answer, not verbally. The sweet strokes to his frame have brought hot tears to his eyes and tremors to his throat, and so he nods jerkily instead, awash in the glory of the paws on his flesh, having before feared that he would never feel anything so beautiful and good again, touches to his skin that feel like they belong at an altar instead. The vivid recollections of loneliness, both in his life at the village and in his banishment to the cold forest, hurt him still. They sting like cold crystals of snow against his vulnerable hands and face, scratch and scrape away at his reddened flesh until he is left with bare bones and exposed nerves.

 

More than anything he can sense the change within himself and he is bursting to the brim with it, these new little differences that have occurred in not only the span of these five months but years also, perhaps all his life. There is affection spreading through him like fire, or perhaps something stronger; from the feel of it Jack cannot be sure whether it has been there all along, buried in his hesitance, or whether it has sprung anew from his chest.

 

The compunction is nothing new, but never before has Jack felt it so strongly.

 

“In all these months I've been here I've been nothing but a burden to you.” He whispers, casting his gaze away from his buck's eyes. He fidgets, tugging his wrists away from the hold on them and letting them lie rigidly on his lap, his great silent need made evident in the shame found within his voice. He must make his regrets known or choke on his own tongue with the guilt. “I don't know how you can forgive me.”

 

Bunnymund laughs.

 

“Don't fault yourself.” He whispers back, the timbre of his voice near reproachful. “We were new to each other then, and we are even now. They kept you from me at their own cost, and as a result you abhorred and feared me. If they had been kind enough to grant you knowledge of me there never would have been such pain for you to bear, pet, but think on it no longer. We have time enough to rid ourselves of those barriers.”

 

It does not escape Jack's notice that the grip Bunnymund holds around him has gone slack. It was of his own accord that he pulled away, but in doing so the Pooka had let his paws fall from Jack's form; now they lie simply against his hips. For a reason he does not understand this makes him fearful and nervous: he turns to bury his cheek into Bunnymund's scruff again, digs his fingers into the fur until he can feel Bunnymund's flesh against his nails. So deep-seated is the urge for touch that he moves closer, squeezing his eyes shut to rid himself of any distance there might be visible between them. If he were to ask Bunnymund to hold and squeeze him until he were nearly crushed to dust, would he comply? Would it feel as good as the kisses do?

 

“Hold me tighter.” Jack begs, arching into the paw that cups the base of his spine, the fingers that drag upwards, slide beneath his shirt and the claws that draw faint pink lines over his vertebrae. He reaches back to grasp one paw

 

( _and this is new,_ newest _,_

 

_because he has never sought to touch those paws before, never thought to grasp and squeeze the way he is now )_

 

and press it more firmly against the flat of his skin, pulling back to look his buck in the eye, to see the fat ring of green round his half-slitted pupils.

 

Bunnymund accepts the plea without hesitation; he draws his arms tighter and tighter around Jack until he hardly has the room to breathe, and his lungs begin to protest the embrace just as he hisses out a satisfied sigh. To feel such brute strength, to be held so perfectly in hard arms sets his nerves aflame. He will have bruises later, he knows, and he _wants_ them. Jack wants to look down at himself in the hours to come and see the validation of his buck's adoration for him etched upon his skin in mottled blues and purples.

 

“Bite me.” Jack urges, curling his fingers like death-wielding claws into the Pooka's chest. He wants the pain. He wants proof that this is all real, that he will still hurt when he is clamped by teeth.

 

His buck coughs out a rough sound, frenzied at his doe's insistence. There is no caution in his jaw when he encases Jack's shoulder between teeth and crushes down: he is for the moment purely animal with little regard to consequences. The pain is exquisite; Jack shrieks and arches closer, sending rivulets of blood cascading down skin and fur alike. It sharpens his mind like jagged stone until all his senses are immaculately filled with the sounds and feels of his buck.

 

There is nothing else in the world but this, these teeth and paws and ears and eyes and lips that suck at him, the tongue that laves his wound. Nothing else matters so much as his buck.

 

 _This is all_ _real,_ Jack thinks to himself giddily. _Dreams no more._

 

Bunnymund pulls away with a grunt, licking a red sheen from his lips.

 

( _the sight of his own blood on those sharp teeth sets something in Jack at slight unease_ )

 

“You shouldn't tempt me so.” He scolds, but his voice is gravelly with desire. He bends to continue licking, breathing roughly. “You've only just begun to heal.”

 

Dazed with fading pain, Jack only lolls against Bunnymund, offering a small sound of confusion in response.

 

 _You_ begged _him to claim you this time, Jack._

 

 _Only weeks ago you despised his touch. Now you crave it with a hunger unmatched._ _How long did you think you would last with your little acts of rebellion? Did you do it to save yourself, because you thought you would eventually escape?_

 

The voice grows jaded, sly.

 

_Or did you do it for the outcome?_

 

 _Tell me, Jack. It will be our secret. Did you hold out all this time to reap the reward of his force? All those long, wet sticky hours that you spent dreaming of his abuse... you longed for it, didn't you? Too great is your shame of yearning, so you become obstinate,_ disobedient _, because then he will lose his control, and then he will do the work for you. When he attacks you have no choice but to submit, and then it is all the easier, is it not?_

 

 _He does not show it, little_ _doe_ _, but he is ecstatic to see your changes._ _Tonight when you sleep, he will emerge to the world above and celebrate in ways only he knows how._

 

Jack shakes his head reluctantly, but he knows his battle has been lost. How long ago his struggle ended is a mystery to him; was it all over from the day of his making? How can he struggle against beings more powerful than he, a mere rag of flesh?

 

He had wanted that bite. He had wanted the violence, how can he deny it now? How often he had dreamed of a paw crushing his throat, of blood raking across his lips and the coarse, rough press of a heavy cock into his mouth, into his anus and between his hands, always on him, with him, _for_ him.

 

He rationalizes like so: how can he not be accustomed to it? For months now, nearly his every waking moment is spent clutched at Bunnymund's side, buried into his chest with a heavy chin settled sweetly on the top of his head? How can he be afraid any longer when this is all he has ever dreamt of? Surely if this has been the subject of his fantasies since his childhood, it cannot be so wrong. Perhaps all this business is not as terrible as he originally deemed it to be.

 

And when those paws so tenderly touch at his cheeks like he is made of the most delicate stellar structure, like Bunnymund is afraid of him dissolving into mere dust, is that not a testament of Bunnymund's claims? Is he not the doe that the Pooka reveres, grooms and kisses and worships with his lips?

 

 _Is it wrong to want what I've dreamed of all my life?_ He questions silently, a response, testing the words on his lips silently.

 

( _want._

 

 _he wants this. he has_ wanted _this._ )

 

His reply is spoken, but it may as well be a laugh. _You certainly thought so all those weeks ago._

 

If Bunnymund knows that Jack is being spoken to, he does not let on. He has for the moment taken to grooming himself, dragging his tongue over the rumpled fur of his shoulder, where Jack has tracked tears.

 

Jack does not answer the voice again. He settles back into thinking, listening to the sounds of his buck's tongue sliding across fur. From his dreams, he remembers an attack: clashes of muscled bulk and thick furs, claws that rip and string out bloody ropes of vein and flesh. The worst is the cry of pain: sharp, edged with fury. Blood spraying from black fur and ashen flesh.

 

“You're hurt.” He remembers. His mind is slow to work; it feels like he has been submerged somewhere deep and is only just resurfacing, straggling with numb limbs and searching for a proper grip on his thoughts.

 

Bunnymund makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. “I was.”

 

“Was?” Jack repeats drowsily. The heat of the Pooka's body has set his body at pleasant rest and his mind at ease. With him so close and content, there is no danger of being left out on his own again. “Not anymore?”

 

“No. Not anymore.”

 

But how can that be, Jack thinks, and says “Show me.”

 

The Pooka moves away from Jack carefully, untangling himself from Jack's arms with a gentleness to his paws that Jack suspects he has not felt in months. The Pooka moves towards the flowers surrounding their nest's edge, and the light plays out over his black fur like the spilling of water. A purr bursts from his chest when Jack follows after him, his hands reaching and gliding into his fur, stroking delicately up to his damaged ear. Jack strokes a thumb gingerly across the ragged, scarred rip and he shudders, both ears following the movement. Something inside him goes quiet; it is a sad, terrible sight. Such a tall, proud ear should not be subject to so violent, so _ugly_ a mangling.

 

“Will it heal?”

 

Bunnymund presses back into his touch and rubs his cheek along Jack's arm, pressing his nose to a thin wrist. “It already has.”

 

Jack frowns, and bends to look closer. He can still see the impressions that terrible creature's teeth left on Bunnymund's ear: he shivers to touch such previously damaged skin and remember the way the fur had shone slick, disgusting with blood. He searches for any red and finds none. The flesh over the wound is not raw or new: it has already scabbed over, looking healthy and halfway to healing successfully. Further inquiry along the Pooka's shoulder, where the waheela had bitten his buck, provides no answers. There is no evidence of such an injury; the fur is soft as ever, thick. When he digs his fingers deeper down to feel what he can of the flesh, there is no evidence of scarring.

 

“How?” He questions- and suddenly he recalls his own wounds, and his hands fly down to his side, fingers brushing over the soft shirt's seams. He takes the edge of his blouse and lifts it, running an astonished palm over the faint impressions of stitches that dot an aged looking laceration over his ribs. The flesh feels tender, but there is no discomfort.

 

“What happened?” He asks, looking up at Bunnymund, because the pain in his dreams had been so real he is still surprised that he is not still up in the tree, listening and waiting, _dying_.

 

“You were gravely injured. I cleaned and healed what I could.” Bunnymund runs a paw down Jack's ribcage, the side he had been clawed into. There is no scarring, no hurt. It is miraculous as the adoration he thrusts upon his doe in the form of a whiskered kiss upon his knuckles. “You slept through most of it.”

 

“You did this?” Jack asks, astonished. “But how?”

 

Bunnymund leans into Jack more heavily, pressing him against the nest's low wall. He dips his nose into the high collar of Jack's shirt and sucks in long breaths, listening raptly to the quickening beat of his heart. Jack was asleep all that time- he cannot know how wild it drove his buck to be without an active doe, how he worked so feverishly to restore him to full health and how he slept so fitfully in the nights, craving a kiss and small palms in his fur. “I know more than most of medicine. I had help for the more delicate wounds.”

 

Jack's mind flits to the memory of a white globe in the sky, watching him incessantly in the night. He goes tense at the whispering against his neck, lashes fluttering prettily in quiet pleasure at the sensation of guarded teeth and hungry tongue.

 

“You bore your punishment well, Jack.”

 

Jack clings to him, finding the angle awkward but reluctant to lose his grip. “Don't leave again.” He begs anew, rendered hopeless at every mention of his punishment. “I'm sorry.”

 

And his buck, with his green eyes like new spring grass, only laughs, and twitches a long ear when Jack's thumb brushes clumsily across its base. “I forgave you long before I left, pet.”

 

The reassurance of his forgiveness washes over Jack in small waves, lapping first at his ankles and then rushing over his shoulders, submerging him in one fell swoop until the tears that have threatened at his vision have cleared away and his shaking has stopped. When he goes to voice his thanks, there is a finger put over his mouth, instead.

 

“Do you think you can stand?”

 

Jack shakes his head. He reaches upwards to lace his arms around a thick, furry neck and pulls down and he does not speak, only buries his face into the glossy ruff and clings. A hint of something old and brittle cracks like dry greenery off of Jack's spine, stubborn remnants of something that once was and will never be again. The flakes that linger dust the back of his blouse, dotting it like inverse stars, falling into place like steadfast markers upon a map's weathered front.

 

Remembering again the pained cry and splash of blood, he squeezes his eyes shut and turns his cheek to hide and bury the memories within the black fur, as if doing so will keep them forever from his mind. There is a gentle tug on his hand, which at some point Bunnymund has enveloped in his own paw.

 

“I have something to show you.” He divulges, like each word is a secret to be found. “Come outside with me.”

 

He assists Jack in standing, pressing a paw into the small of his back to keep him upright. Jack's legs balk at the burden of his body; trembling, he forces himself to step forward, and the next steps come haltingly, and then semi-fluidly, helped along by muscle-memory and hindered by idle muscles.

 

Bunnymund leads him from the nest and to a long passage of tunnels; as Jack's stride strengthens, they approach a mossy wall riddled with several flowers, all of which brighten at their presence, seeming to look closely at Jack and beam with pulses of light. The tunnel's exit yawns open slowly before them, slanting upwards to offer passage and showcasing a world of shadowy night; Jack hesitates, pressing nervously against Bunnymund's front. It is not the climb that daunts him- it is the blackness of the sky that peers down into their subterranean sanctuary, the same sky that mocked him the night of the attack. It leaks even now into their tunnel, so pungent it dwarfs the flowers' cobalt gleam.

 

“It's too dark.”

 

The memory of abandonment rattles in his chest. There is no moonlight to speak of; he cannot see his feet nor his hands. Except for his eyes, Bunnymund blends perfectly into the night. The oddest sense of suspension bothers at Jack's mind; if it were not for the solid ground beneath him he would think he were out above, weightless between the stars. How can this fear be returning now when he has only just become accustomed to the little light there is in their nest? Jack bites his lip; are they two separate types of darkness, one one bearable than the other? “I can't see anything.”

 

A nose nudges carefully at his nape, prodding him a step further. A sweet gesture. “Let me guide you.”

 

Jack's fear wavers. He puts out a hand behind him, hoping to grasp that nose, an ear, anything that will ground him, and, feeling nothing, struggles not to cry out. There is no answer, no noise around him. Has Bunnymund left him? Has he wandered off alone?

 

“Bunnymund?” Jack calls; his fear sticks his voice to his throat, making it a high pitched whimper.

 

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels something large slide against his back, but then there is a large wet nose poking at his nape. Jack's heart flutters in wild relief. Bunnymund comes over him like a shroud, silent and stealthy and making Jack feel so utterly protected that he wants to weep for it.

 

“I can't _see_.” He whimpers.

 

Bunnymund pushes carefully into his side, brushing Jack's side with a great furred shoulder, offering assistance. “Hold onto me, pet.” He tells Jack softly, tongue touching his ear.

 

Jack reaches for that thick scruff and in his nonsensical despair he does not once let go.

 

They walk further along silently so as not to disturb the night. Jack's strength returns to his gait, but still he holds fast to his buck, afraid that the smallest slack in his grasp will send him reeling back into the darkness, lost and alone once more.

 

When he first notices the faint glowing ahead, he falters in his steps, unsure, but Bunnymund urges him onward with a quiet chuff, stooping to pull Jack up into his arms and carry him the rest of the way.

 

Upon their approach, Jack realizes they are stepping into a dense circlet of trees, too closely grown together for him to catch a glimpse at what the source of the light is. Weak tendrils of it snake past the cracks between trunks, colored a blue so familiar that Jack's heart does an odd little jump.

 

“What is this?” He asks as Bunnymund carries him past, stepping silently into the thick ring of trees.

 

The Pooka does not answer. He does not need to, for as soon as the last questioning syllable has left Jack's tongue they have entered the tiny clearing embedded deep within the cluster of trees, and his voice has faltered for all his amazement.

 

Flowers like those of their nest line the ground in a tight ring, grouped so closely together that their glow is stronger than what weak light is offered in the nest. Some have grown tall, near half his height, bordered by smaller buds that grow in clumps along their roots; others loop greedily around the surrounding trees, bringing the light a little higher up. They are alien flowers, species Jack has never seen before: combinations of long petals and colors deep enough to be navy, leaves the length of a hand. A good majority of them glow in unhurried pulsing patterns, soft as a sleeping heart.

 

“I planted them here while you slept.” Bunnymund explains as he pulls Jack deeper in. In the light of the flora his eyes shine a queer aquatic shade, entirely unlike their vivid green, making him look foreign, unreal. His teeth appear to glow, influenced by the bright shine. “For you.”

 

Jack gapes at their surroundings as he is settled onto his feet, finding his balance unsteadily on the moss-covered ground. The flowerbed is extravagant; each leaf and stem and petal looks healthy, well tended to. He steps forward carefully to peer closer and cries out in surprise when they move to follow his footsteps, leaning forward as though eager to touch him. Unlike their nest, here they grow wild and uninhibited, and perhaps it is because of the open air that they seem happy to grow under the watchful trees, hidden away where none can admire the view but he and the Pooka.

 

Delicately, Jack reaches to touch a petal with the tip of his finger and watches breathlessly as its pistil blazes white momentarily in acknowledgment. The earth beneath is as soft as that of their nest, and the flowers are those of their nest and the light of them keeps the night away, and this has been done for _him_.

 

A gentle wind stirs his hair; he makes to brush it from his eyes and realizes then that his fringe does not bother his view at all. Five months he has been away from the village- his hair should have been in his eyes, several inches down his neck and cheeks. Has it ceased to grow, or has Bunnymund cut it for him?

 

He jumps when the Pooka approaches from behind, but does not protest as he is pulled down to lie in the grass. It is better this way, because he does not know if he can rely on words to express his emotions. What is he feeling now, right this moment? Can he trust himself when he thinks it to be gratitude, or are those not his own thoughts?

 

“You must know that I love you, pet.” Bunnymund murmurs into Jack's neck, lips dragging wetly across shivering flesh. “I may lie, and I may bruise and bite and bleed you, but _cor_ , I do love you.”

 

He sounds broken, unstable, like the ground he sits on trembles and he has no manner in which to steady his voice. Jack's heart surges to his throat.

 

“I know.” Jack whispers, because he does know it, he can feel it and he has dreamt of it for so long, because even underneath all those suffocating kisses all those weeks ago he sensed that devotion, the adoration. He feels Bunnymund shift and press something cool and dry into his wrist. When Jack looks down, he lurches away from the object with a cry of horror.

 

The skull stares dully back at him. It has been stripped of flesh and cleaned of blood, but along the tinier nooks and cracks in its surface there remain faint lines of red. Half of its teeth have been smashed away from their roots, leaving the thing looking like it has been smashed repeatedly into a hard ground.

 

But he recognizes the shape of it, thinks he can see the shape of its original owner around it. He remembers the dig and tear of claws into his side and he shudders, pushing himself out of the Pooka's reach and huddling on a small bank of moss. He cannot help picturing what Bunnymund must have done to free the skull of flesh and body- something he has seen done before by Philipe, by the women at the market who plucked chickens clean of feathers and snapped the necks swiftly.

 

“He's dead now, Jack.” Bunnymund reassures him softly, holding the skull in his paw between them like an offering. “He can't hurt you anymore.”

 

“Put it away.” Jack stammers, shaken at the sight of those vacant, dull sockets following his movements. It is no better that there are no malicious eyes in them any longer; so easily comes the image to his mind of a beast ready to gut him.

 

The Pooka tuts, but he puts the skull face down into the ground at his feet, and holds out his arms invitingly, smoothing his expression into one of concern. “Come, pet, surely you're not afraid of the dead.”

 

Torn between walking into those arms for comfort and keeping as far away from the horrific bone, Jack draws his knees into his chest and looks up at his buck, forcing himself to avoid the sight of it. He has never seen a creature such as the one that attacked him that night- he had always heard rumors of strange fauna in the woods, had stumbled into odd pawprints himself at times, but the skull is unmistakably familiar. That Bunnymund returned to the scene of the attack and removed the skull from the corpse churns something fiercely in his stomach, but he cannot tell if it is disgust gnawing at him or pride at his buck's strength. 

 

“I'm not going near it.” He mumbles, tucking his head against his knees. “I can't. Get rid of it.”

 

He is being stubborn now, and disobedient above all, but Bunnymund seems determined to ignore any chances at real anger today. He creeps forward and surrounds Jack with the wall of his body, drawing him close.

 

( _always the closeness, always the touching_ )

 

“What happened that day will never happen again, Jack, so long as you love your buck.” He whispers. “I destroyed him for disregarding my claim and daring to touch you. I'll do the same to anyone else.”

 

His words are imbued with danger, tinged with a hint of a long snarl. Jack does not have to look up to see the way the Pooka's muzzle is wrinkled with his displeasure, whiskers raised and eyes slitted at the thought of any harm coming to him- to _Jack_.

 

The realization of this spurs Jack to uncurling from his defenseless position, toes curling into the grass when he realizes the skull has been brought along and perched at his feet. He turns his head and lets Bunnymund move forward to meet him, cradling his cheek in the velvet of his shoulder.

 

“What will you do with it?” He is asked.

 

Jack does not want it. Gift or not, he does not want this macabre sign of devotion anywhere near him, nor does he want it brought back to the nest, where it will watch him endlessly, forever a reminder of his brush with death,

 

_of his failures in pleasing his buck._

 

Acting on impulse and the vigorous anger that erupts in his veins, Jack twists away from Bunnymund and grabs the frame of bone hatefully, revulsion jerking up his throat like bile. He spies a small crop of rocks in the ground and strikes the skull against it once, twice, five times, then ten, and his arms grow tired and his fingers begin to redden in pain and he is making sounds that are not tears but he cannot understand them over the rush of blood in his head. The sounds and anger do not let up until there is the weight of a paw on his arm and he flinches, starting out of his stupor with a short gasp.

 

In short blows he realizes he what he has done. His buck has given him a gift, and here he is attempting to destroy it in his childish fear, letting small splinters of bone scrape and tear at his fingers and mangling the weaker parts of cartilage so that the shape of it is unrecognizable. He lets go of the thing and a curved shard of bone the size of his fist cracks off, settling in his palm like it is a part of him.

 

( _a weapon._

 

 _sharp enough to stab_...? )

 

When he finally dares to meet Bunnymund's gaze, he is astounded to see the Pooka is smiling. He does not at all look like he cares that Jack is armed or that his gift has been wrecked. His gaze falls to the mess of a skull that has been scattered unceremoniously into the grass, and when he speaks he sounds utterly pleased.

 

“You did well.” He bends and pushes his nose against Jack's neck, prodding him forward gently. “I wouldn't want any reminders of him, either.”

 

Jack struggles to his feet, staring numbly down at the shattered remains strewn along the grass, tightening his fingers over the fragment of bone in his hand. Should he conceal it, or has Bunnymund already seen it? 

 

He does not have time to decide; smoothly, he is drawn into another embrace. His legs are swept out from under him, a powerful arm tucking itself underneath his knees and supporting his weight as though it is nothing at all. He is cradled firmly to Bunnymund's chest, and as the green-eyed buck presses their mouths together, he lowers Jack gently into the nearest clutch of flowers.

 

Jack does not realize what is happening until he hears the strange creaking of their stems; too late, he tries righting himself, pushing at Bunnymund's chest for space to sit up.

 

“No don't-” He stammers, hurting strangely at the sight and feel of crumpled petals, “You'll crush them!”

 

But the Pooka only takes his lips again and presses Jack down into the gleaming blossoms, his claws snapping irritably from their sheaths when Jack continues to protest. At this he goes still and closes his eyes, allowing himself to be kissed, feeling the slow seep of calmness spill into him unbidden. He goes numb, voiceless; alarmed, Jack tugs sharply on Bunnymund's fur, seeking explanation.

 

“A trance.” Bunnymund explains when he has pulled away for breath. He settles himself atop Jack, caressing his cool little face, noting the haze in his eyes. “Don't fight it. You've had one before, remember?”

 

He does not feel like speaking. He does not feel like doing anything at all other than lying back and stroking his palms through a broad back. Entranced by the shine of blue on the world around him and the hypnotic gaze of familiar eyes, Jack nods because he remembers: the last time he felt such mindlessness was the day he first took his buck into his mouth, in an area of mountains and aged rock. When Bunnymund leans down again, he tilts his chin upwards and is rewarded with tendrils of bliss twining into his veins as his flesh is sucked and tasted.

 

“I was meant to protect you, and I put you in harm's way instead.” The Pooka growls lowly, raking his fingers through Jack's hair. “I could have lost you.”

 

He is guilty, Jack realizes with a start. He is angry with himself for letting Jack be attacked. That is what all this- the flowers, the skull, the tenderness- is for, all of these things made gifts to appease his rage at himself. He has promised Jack protection so many hundreds of times, and here is the one time he nearly failed in it.

 

“No.” He says instantly; a short tremor rocks his body at the press of a nose and lips to his skin. He presses into it, neck going weak as his head lolls against a larger shoulder. His time alone is gone now, long past, but still he remembers the regret, the rotting bodies, the sizable depression left deep in the core of him at the loss of something, _someone_ so much a part of him. “It was my punishment. I deserved the harm. You _saved_ me. You should have left me to face my consequences.”

 

“ _Never_.” Bunnymund snarls. All tranquility he displayed earlier is gone in an instant, undone by Jack's unwitting words. He grips Jack's jaw hard enough to bruise, speaks into his mouth like these are his last words. “If there are consequences to be dealt then they'll be done by _my_ hand. _No one_ can punish you but _me_.”

 

Perhaps it is a result of his new madness that Jack does not feel dismay at his words. He has tasted but some mere handfuls of life without his buck, and he has found them wanting, _te_ _rrible._ As the Pooka pulls back his rage and begins again to work hungry teeth at his neck, Jack finds that his words have thrilled him, iced his blood and left him shivering in unspoken delight, for there is nothing like knowing that you are wanted so terribly.

 

How could he have _ever_ thought any of this wrong, he thinks ecstatically as evidence of his buck's arousal burns hot into his thighs, as his body remains clothed but rocks with the motions of a crazed desire, as his hands are jerked down between their bodies to be drenched, when it is the very definition of perfection?

 

The shard of bone, with its hint of dried blood and pointed ends, lies forgotten near the flowers.

 

( _inside Jack, something curls into itself, shriveling, suffocating in its docility_ )

 

I I I I I I

 

Elsewhere, above: the trees surrounding Burgess collectively shudder.

 

Similar to the night of Jack's first meeting with his buck, there is a ring of short tremors throughout the woods. Long-buried roots creak restlessly deep underground, aged bark chipping uselessly with the movement. The groan that issues forth from the ground echoes between the tallest of trees; new budded leaves whip sharply in the direction of the village, too new to snap off their perches but for all the world looking intent on doing so.

 

There is no longer any snow, but there remains a slight chill to permeate through even the sturdiest cabin, even the newer ones made of brick. The men of the village tasked with wood-gathering collectively pause in their journey back home, listening. The sounds of flickering leaves raise the hairs on their arms and napes. That is not a sound of spring, they find themselves thinking. That is the sound of autumn. Of a fall in its throes before the winter comes.

 

The group of them, ages fifteen to thirty, put their backs to the wind and continue onward with new trepidation in their footsteps. They are surprised at the swift darkness that has befallen their settlement, unsettled by the new hostility from the skies above.

 

One man shudders visibly. The others laugh at him, but their amusement is forced. Out here away from their homes and poorly equipped to fend off any attacks, they feel vulnerable and they are angry for it. They know the woods and they know their strengths, but as the sky begins to darken they grow irritable, more quiet. There are things here to watch out for, each man thinks as he steps carefully in the grass and mud. There is a thing out here that has taken many of their own, and will not hesitate to rip and break them should he find them in his territory. There is a thing out there that has taken one of their own, and they have heard screams in the night, and they have seen blood in the grasses near.

 

“It ain't right.” The ridiculed man says to his companions, gloved fingers clutching worriedly at the bundled pack of firewood in his arms. It will fetch him a fine fire in his hearth tonight, and keep away the night terrors for as long as he is awake. “Nothin' been right since Philipe up and disappeared.”

 

His words are quick to hush the others.

 

Philipe, they remember darkly, had been one of their group before his disappearance in March. It is early April now, and there has been no sign of him. These men know that he will be found eventually, another body to add to the record-book. It is inevitable that he should have been attacked, and they all know this as surely as they breathe. It is Philipe's own fault, and it is the Overland widow's fault.

 

“He wouldn't be gone if it weren't for the boy's mother beggin' for a search.” Another man snorts accusingly. “Fine man he was, and she went and got him killed lookin' for a lost cause. This,” he says, his tone growing rougher, “All started with her and her _boy_.”

 

The others nod in agreement. Several spit on the ground as they walk past, pulling their wagons and slings of firewood.

 

“Too early to be this dark.” One scavenger observes, stepping warily over a collection of moldy stones the size of his foot.

 

“Does it matter?”

 

The retort comes from the leader of their group, the farmer. Hefting a slipping chunk of log back up into his arms, he is careful to avoid hurting himself with his armfuls of spindly branches. “We got what we were sent for. We'll be back in time for supper.”

 

The first man sets his jaw. For a while there is no sound but the squeak and screech of wooden wheels over rugged terrain. The wagon, pulled by the strongest among their numbers, jostles the wood inside and produces a sound that makes the men think of long claws digging into defenseless wood and raking downwards, peeling and splintering. Their shoulders hunch as they walk, and their gazes twitch nervously to the ground.

 

“It ain't right.” The first man insists.

 

I I I I I I

 

The priest, stern and pragmatic in the sharp creases of his holy garb, paces before the pews, clutching a worn book of leather in one hand and in the other, a small crucifix on beaded rope. Framed against the sunlit windows in his heavy cassock, he cuts a daunting, important figure.

 

“Avert thy mortal eyes from sights that sear the orbs of men.” He recites, sounding excited, distracted, fierce. All eyes in the room are glued to his form, hands clasped in waiting laps. “Keep thy thoughts from the labryinthine path that leads from arrogant knowledge to firey destruction.

 

Seek not the lightning strike that summons life nor the dark vortex that is death before redemption. Neither cry aloud nor shake clenched fists at the god whose plan is terrible but perfect. Conceive no theories, build no stopgaps against the inevitable and the divine. Instead, love thy wife and tender children, grasp and savor the bounteous earth. Concern thyself with what was freely given as thy birthright.”

 

He does not include the stanza's last sentence. He considers it; reciting a passage and leaving it unwhole irritates him- but as the words pass through his mind, his eyes snap through the crowd, finding after some brief pause a face still young and so contorted in determined prayer and hidden grief that it serves to unbalance him, if only for a moment.

 

The daughter sits beside her; she stares down at her lap absently, looking like she is trying very hard not to think about anything at all. On the mother's left side, the pew remains as empty as it has been for the past five months.

 

( _no one else dares seat themselves there. how can they, when the presence of something vile has sat there for years, inflicting its own terrible_ wrongness _upon them all?_ )

 

He stutters in his thinking, remembering a face to match the two already seated, and a marking found on both flesh and weathered paper. Exact matches, each belonging to the other. He looks to the Overland widow's face and feels nothing.

 

Pity is lost with time, fear ebbs with carelessness.

 

 _V_ _enture more and invite perdition,_ he thinks to himself, for if he cannot complete the verse aloud then he will do so in silence.

 

After the service, he retreats to his rooms and ignores all messages his wife brings from the congregation. The Overland widow has again requested to speak to him, he knows. He feigns exhaustion and offers to meet with her later in the week.

 

In the nights where the truth builds in his mind, he resorts to drink.

 

It is heavy sin, for a man of his status: he swallows the liquid with disdain and offers his eyes up to the roof of his home, pleading forgiveness in his mind. With knowledge comes fear, terror, shame. He knows far more than he will ever be able to atone for, and the thought frightens him. He is a dedicated man of god, and this alone will not save him. Were it not for the holiness of his occupation and all that he has learnt, he would have let the bitterness easily get the better of him.

 

Tonight he sleeps unwell. He wakes twice to sounds of the outside, and thrice to sounds of his head's making. He dreams of angry woods and a large cave's mouth, and of himself crossing its threshold into darkness, where he comes upon a scene of horror.

 

Lately he has dreamt only of the beginning: of himself holding a newborn babe, witnessing again and again the marking on the hip, the soul made from things ungodly. It disappears from his hands just as he yanks them away, determined not to soil his own person with another's sins.

 

But this dream is _new_.

 

He walks through woods unfamiliar. The faster he walks the heavier his cassock becomes, forcing him to slow, and try as he might he cannot get it to cease its troublesome dragging at his neck and feet. There is nothing else in the area but him; when he turns and looks to the distance behind him, he sees lights, and a dot of a village miles away.

 

Eventually he comes across the opening to a cave. It lies straight ahead in his path, direct and challenging. He knows he is meant to go in, but it is with trepidation and rapid growing dread that he begins to pray for safety-

 

and it is silly, because no harm can come to him in visions, but he has read the recounts and the records far more than anyone in the village, and he has learnt half by heart, and he knows that the vile creature has more abilities than he will ever care to discover.

 

Walking deep into darkness, he trips and stumbles over strewn rocks and uneven ground, aided by only a light that glows from far within the black cave.

 

What he comes across at the bottom of the cave is this:

 

A body lying alone.

 

Heaps and rows of scattered bones nearby.

 

A stench of rot and waste.

 

Shadows flickering across the floor.

 

The first is the sight that unsettles him most.

 

“God save and protect me.” He gasps.

 

The Overland boy is nude and bleeding profusely from the neck. There is little light with which to see, but when he peers closer there are shadows of bruises like thick paint on his skin, like he has been throttled with a grip hard enough to shatter his trachea. He lies on his back with his hands splayed open at his hips, and his eyes are wet with terror. His breath comes in ragged gasps, broken apart at irregular, hoarse intervals, but when he speaks the words are startlingly clear.

 

“Born he will be with the mark of his master, and into the maw he will be let by his own ties.” He recites tonelessly. A line he is not supposed to ever have learned, from a tale concocted long ago.

 

And then the boy stands.

 

He moves with difficulty, occasionally gasping in pain. His movements are slow and precise, and as he comes into the light to stand before the priest his wounds scream from his abused flesh like calls for help. Blood streams down his legs in thin rivulets, mixing with a pearly liquid that drips down and pinkens the blood as it reaches his toes.

 

“Father,” the Overland boy drones, swaying unsteadily on bruised feet, “I am completed at last.”

 

No matter how much he screams, the scene does not let up- not until there is a sudden burst of vivid green light from the dark, and the Overland boy's lips crack into a smile as the silence is rent with a roar.

 

He shouts himself awake. Clutching his heart and gasping for breath, he moves immediately to sit up, unable to stop the bile that erupts from his mouth and spatters messily to the floor.

 

His assistant stands by his bed looking harried, clutching an unlit candle. Afternoon sunlight sneaks past his window's curtains; he has not been asleep twenty minutes. His wife is still in the chapel, conversing with the congregation.

 

“Something must be done about your spells.” His assistant says, handing him a cup of water. He drinks shakily, remembering blood and green. Does the boy's mother dream of the same scenes? “You'll wake the neighbors. People won't be pleased to find out about them, considering what happened to the first, Father.”

 

To hell with the neighbors, Father Nichols thinks.

 

( _th_ _e night before, he stood outside to watch at the gate for the wood-gatherers to return, and he watched the skies as the cosmic lights disappeared for all of a second, and felt extreme consternation gnaw at the lining of his throat._ )

 

Always clumsy after his dreams, the cup slides past his slacked fingers and clatters to the floor, mixing with his upheaval.

 

“Clean this up.” He orders his assistant, too dazed to find manners, and lurches to his feet.

 

In his study, he locks the door behind him. He pulls the record book, from its place on his shelves, his hand trembling from its steadily growing weight. It is enormous, thick, torn in places and older than he or any other in the village. Inside it lie accounts of all the bodies found, each sighting, each remarkably horrific finding they have made concerning the creature in their woods. Crude, uncertain drawings line its pages, depicting what the Pooka is thought to look like, but this is not what he is interested in, not now.

 

When he finds the page, he rubs his palms over his face and attempts to remain still, for he has begun to shake. The passage lies unread upon his desk but it does not matter, for it is one of the few he has memorized.

 

Amidst other paragraphs, this one reads clearly, written in bold hand for its severity. It is one of the most feared lines; he cannot blame his flock for balking when they are reminded in any way of it. It is no less different to the manner in which they reacted to the boy in all his years.

 

_Because he is made of things unlike us, the earth will reject and revere him, but the stars will acknowledge that he is made of them. Be aware of the day the night goes blank, for nothing good will follow._

 

“Heaven help us.” He moans into his hands, because now he knows his day of reckoning fast approaches.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Stockholm's done a real number on you, Jack.


	15. Hymns in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sleep.” Bunnymund orders gently, and Jack is lost to him in seconds. He loosens in his buck's arms, head lolling back, fingers relaxing their clutch on his fur. Bunnymund smoothes his fingers into the downy mess of his hair, admiring the white-silver strands that have more viciously begun to overtake the original warmth of brown.
> 
> There is little of it left; the surviving strands are hidden almost completely now by the new, snowy tint. Soon comes the time for death, Bunnymund thinks sadly, rubbing the soft strands between his fingers.
> 
> It is unfortunate; he did so love that particular hue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again, it's been a while. 
> 
> Some IMPORTANT NOTES before you read further: 
> 
> In the time I've been inactive the entirety of Caught has undergone major edits. This was done mostly to correct mistakes as well as to flesh out the earlier chapters, those which were begun on shaky understanding of my own writing and this story's plot. Since I started Caught a year ago, my writing style has changed some and I wanted above all else to make sure that this story as a whole fit fluidly together and did not remain as disjointed as it was initially. There are some notable differences along the way, though nothing big enough to cause any disruption in the main plot. 
> 
> I also keep forgetting to mention: if you're interested in learning/seeing more about Caught, there's a [tag](http://killianjoenss.tumblr.com/tagged/caught) for it on my blog. Go take a look, there's been some beautiful fan art made and gorgeous snippets written for the story and they need more love. 
> 
> Chapter title taken from Houses' The Beauty Surrounds, which isn't on the Caught [mix](http://8tracks.com/qwertybee/exaltation-of-a-radiant-child) because 8tracks is a whiny baby bitch about 2+ tracks by the same artist on one mix, but you can find it [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4JHtv8ZqdnU&list=PL38PwF75TN2AF0DNMPFCSbnz7JI7xRG2M&feature=share), as I've always considered the entire album to be a perfect soundtrack to Caught. Listen to either, tell me what you think. 
> 
> For those curious, the names of the characters in this chapter are as follow:
> 
> Jack's father: Farran Overland  
> Jack's mother: Lorraine Overland  
> Jack's sister: Michaela Overland  
> Father Nichols: Landon Nichols  
> Nichols' assistant: Isaiah
> 
> Characters without canon names are a pet peeve of mine; I originally planned to keep them nameless and so tried to use my ''given'' names as little as possible but if there is any confusion let me know and I'll edit the chapter to include them.
> 
> WARNING for graphic violence, gore, and sex.

The moon is grown full in the sky when Bunnymund slips away from the nest again.

 

Outside, he breathes in deep lungfuls of the cool spring air, blinking fast to repel the hungry slits from his eyes, puffing air from his nostrils to clear them of his doe's tantalizing scents. He is filthy: the fur on his thighs is matted and stiff with dried saliva and semen, his scruff left in a wild disarray from where his doe has pressed his feverish temples, where he has drooled from the frequency of his moans and set his tongue to searching. He has spent the better part of a week in the nest, never leaving but to gather food for the two of them, loathe to abandon the sleepy circle of his doe's arms, the still-clumsy press of pink lips against his muzzle. This is his first emergence since the night his doe woke, since he watched his doe butcher his attacker's skull, since he took him to the new above ground bedding of flowers and for the first time found him willing, ecstatic as Bunnymund pressed into his thighs and snarled into his neck.

 

But he must not think of that now, else he will lose his resolve and return straightaway to the nest.

 

As he steps out from the tunnel's exit, the grass that cushions his paws thickens healthily, ignoring the brittle yellow state the winter cold has left it in, re-energized by his own excitement. All around him, it grows steadily to the heights of his ankles, the braver strands of green twisting around his paw as if to shake it in a congratulatory manner, to keep him there.

 

The weaker strands split apart when he pries himself free. He moves onwards and the growth follows.

 

The night's air fills with snaps and shuddery crackles as branches bend low from thick trunks to sway softly at him in acknowledgment, not quite as mobile as the slender blades of grass; what leaves remain break happily away from them to illustrate the wind's dance for him, fluttering swiftly and twisting abruptly in the air as they go past him, ruffling his fur. He does not pay close attention, he cannot tell if they dance and whisper gladly to him of their own accord or if it is all a projection of his own contentment seeping from his heart into the earth, but it matters not either way.

 

The lake he finds is not one of particular importance, nor does it boast a great size, but it lies close to his nearest tunnel and its waters are placid, inviting. He rises to wade into the lake on his hind legs, his fur bristling subtly at the cold that sets into his limbs. The water is freezing, but his coat is still thick and he does not mind it so much when there are other things to claim his attention. The chill of the water is good to him: it seeps in past his fur and soaks his skin, wintry on his nose and neck, diffusing the long-lasting heat that has brewed beneath his surface for weeks on end, a total of five months and two weeks.

 

He has lived long, and he has waited longer, but these five months have been no trivial matter. They have taxed him immensely, to his own surprise, but there is no more need to gnash his teeth and suffer, for now the doe is wholly his. The wait is over, and now the fulfillment can truly begin.

 

Enthusiastic at the prospect, his claws unsheathe themselves like flung knives, a metallic _snkt_ sounding as their steely tips click over the stones he pads across as Bunnymund hauls himself from the water; he envisions flashes of blood, shining wet things, wide mouths and eyes.

 

It takes a moment of concentration to conceal them once more- he has no need of them yet, but now the hunger for blood is in him again, whispering quietly for a feeding. He shakes himself vigorously to rid himself of the excess water, splashing everything in his surroundings, but still water drips from him as he leaves the rippling lake for another destination, fur glistening from the dampness but not satisfactorily cleaned. It does not matter: he will return later with Jack, and wash them both spotless.

 

Past the small body of water there is no sign of life- any fauna that have sensed his approach have fled, leaving the waters to him more out of fear than respect. He makes sure to leave a mess of his paw prints along the bank, pisses on a cluster of reeds to remind them whose property the terrain is.

 

The Man in the Moon says nothing to him as he resumes his path, but they both know where he is headed.

 

It is a short walk to his destination: he walks near the village's border, keeping just within the dark of the trees to keep hidden from prying eyes. He can still be spotted from the glances of light off his green eyes, but there is no one around to see, and he is glad for it. He does not wish to kill just yet.

 

It is hard for the Pooka not to smile as he passes by his doe's former home. So many nights spent hunched over the doe's sleeping form, creeping in the shadows of his room: it is still strange to him that he will never have need of hiding again, for now the doe sleeps _with_ him.

 

Inside the dark cabin, he hears the mother's slow, restful breaths, the daughter's quicker ones. One sleeps and dreams of nothing, the other lies awake and attempts to will away the dread that grows within her. From what he remembers of her, the sister is a boring little thing, nothing like her brother- he is of course biased, but that does not take from the fact that she is grown dull in her loneliness, quiet.

 

Perhaps it should be odd to him, to care so much for one and nothing for the other. Bunnymund is not lost to the concept of love between siblings: he remembers little of his first life but dimly he remembers those he shared blood with and the care between them. But that was in another life, and he is not who he was then. The girl is not his doe, therefore the girl means nothing to him. The mother less so, she who sought to tamper with Jack's fate as though it was hers to decide and plot. It is a sad, broken life she has been subjected to, one without pity and rampant with blame. She has taken her side, he has never moved from his.

 

Untroubled by the thought, he passes by the cabin silently, making his way a little deeper into the wood.

 

He comes upon a trio of oaks grown closely together, ugly and bent with age and disease. The body that greets him there is a spectre, lost to time and the physical realm, but he is familiar with it all the same.

 

Watching him approach with shrewd, dark eyes, the man cups his hands at his midsection to keep his large intestine from flooding out of the festering slits that travel down his body; he sits stiffly in a pool of his own blood and flesh. His image flickers on occasion, warped with time and lack of physical attachment to the world they sit in, but there is no confusion: the man remembers where he is, who he was, and why he is here.

 

“He adores you.” He says bleakly, astonished.

 

The pain that twists in his mouth does not come from his wounds. It comes from simply knowing- no mortal wound could ever cause a torment such as this. He knows for the stories are fast come true around them- the signs of spring have shown themselves far too suddenly, the world is thrown off balance, the snow is gone and though a chill persists it is a milder sort than this month has ever known. The trees whisper too gladly amongst themselves. The grass underneath the Pooka's paws is a vivid healthy green, the look in his eyes is not one of bored disinterest: he is glad for something, and it is not hard to guess what. It was foretold the end would begin in this manner, he is well aware of what is to come.

 

“He does.” Bunnymund agrees. He draws up to the man's bare feet and settles in the grass onto his belly, catlike in the lazy blink of his eyes and flicks of his tail. He has had a very good past couple of months; the same cannot be said for his company. “And I him.”

 

A truth: he does not ever remember loving anything so fiercely.

 

The man turns his face to the side momentarily, his jaw clenching to withhold a retort, but the quick jerk of his head fails to hide the way his face crumples in what could be disgust or betrayal. “There is no man would love a creature such as you.”

 

“But he does, and he is the only one that matters to me.” Bunnymund corrects him, untroubled. Always there will be doubt, always the scorn. “You know as well as I that your son is no ordinary man.”

 

There is a derisory snort, or a scoff. The man's nostrils and throat remain crusted with congealed blood, it is difficult to tell. “There is nothing genuine to it. You clouded his mind with tricks and falsehoods. Were he cleared of it he would understand the sin you've drowned him with.”

 

“But I've not drowned him _yet_.” Bunnymund remarks, raising his eyebrows. Blood seeps from between the man's fingers, fresh and hot despite the age of his injuries. It blackens the white of his blouse, a spread of night over day. “I cut you open but I did your eyes no harm, even you can see he's still alive and well.”

 

“And what then? What after?”

 

Bunnymund meets the hostile gaze calmly. The eyes that pierce at him so are similar to his doe's, but they lack the vigor of life and mad need often present in their depths. This man has been dead for many years, long silent save for the times Bunnymund bothers to visit.

 

Anger stirs subtly within him, though even if he were to let it overtake him there would be nothing more he could do. He has already killed the man, now he can only watch him suffer through the memory of his end, forever trapped in a world he no longer belongs to.

 

This man attempted to undo the bonds that tie he and his doe together, Bunnymund remembers faintly. Let him rot in what black lies just after death- he does not deserve the eternal rest.

 

“You knew the stories.” the Pooka tells his companion. He has so much to look forward to he can scarcely think where to begin; his life has begun anew and none know it but he. “You know my plans for him.”

 

Bunnymund cuts a sharp glance at him, his smile wry. “Has so much time passed that you've conveniently forgotten your own involvement?”

 

The man grows agitated at the news. Certainly he remembers: he has known the stories all his life, just as his father did and his father's father before him. His face is white from the bloodloss, as white as Jackson's looks in the pale light of their nest.

 

They share the thin lips, and the freckles too, though Jack's are by far more appetizing, more enchanting.

 

Wincing, clenching his fingers around something dark and shining to keep it from slipping out his carcass, the ghost of a man shakes his head in disbelief, sorrow etched plainly on his face. There was a time when he would argue with such heat, when he would make pressing inquiries and make threats and demands and pleas that bled vacant tears. But so much time has passed, and now he has been given all the answers, and he says no more than a tired, disgusted “Are you so eager to fuck a corpse?”

 

“No.” Bunnymund laughs. “I'm eager to fuck your _son's_ corpse.”

 

Jackson's father- rather, the ghost of him, hisses in outrage and attempts to lunge forward, as if in his condition he can land a blow. He does not make it far: the second he has lurched up from his battered sprawl the ground is spattered beneath him with new blood- his organs drop from inside his gutted belly like large, squashy stones and he chokes from the echos of the pain, falling to his hands and knees into the gory mess with his eyes wide and glassy, terrified.

 

The terror of his death will never leave him, nor the guilt of what he left his family to.

 

“Rest easy.” Bunnymund tells him, standing. He tells no lies and still the man does not believe him, stares up at him with roaring hatred. “Your son is no petty toy to me. He will never want for anything under my care.”

 

“You-” The man stutters, tongue thick with blood, gagging on the fetor of his own decay, “You cannot make him _doe_ \- my _son_ -”

 

The audacity of his statement makes Bunnymund's claws itch, his eyes slitting dangerously, but the fury is useless. The man is already dead, he reminds himself forcefully, what damage can any amount of claws or teeth do to a haunt?

 

“He was _always_ my doe.” Bunnymund informs him fiercely as he makes ready to leave. A dripping hand grasps at his hind paw as he turns but he only tugs away and moves onward. He cannot, however, leave before taking one last, curious look- what would Jack think of his father lying here, ashen and forever stuck in an endless cycle of reliving his last moments? Would he peer at the dead and dying man in confusion, struck at their similarities but remember nothing? Would he hate him for his efforts to ensure Jack would never fall prey to Bunnymund's claws?

 

He leaves the man and his anguished, ghostly cries to the trees- there was truly no need to visit him today, but Bunnymund is set aflame with his triumphs, and what is a victory without the right to brag? The man did, after all, once beg to be informed of his son's welfare.

 

Morning comes soon after.

 

It is as normal a beginning to a day as any other, but with a heart as glad as his there can be none more beautiful than this. There is no better celebration than a hunt: he dizzies himself with his eager running, lets his tunnels lead wherever they would have him. He pays no mind to surroundings; he chases and listens and marks his territories, runs til he is sure his paws will catch flame. The air he rends with screams to match his own volume, the snarls he releases that speak of victory but go misunderstood in the height of fear. Above them the crystalline sky remains bright and joyous, entirely unconcerned with what happens below.

 

The screams ring violently in his ears: large wooden wheels grate over rock and dry ground with a screeching, pebbly clatter, kicking up clouds of dust and dirt. Children and those younger still watch the slaughter with wide, glassy eyes, understanding nothing that happens around them even as their siblings and guardians around them clutch at each other and beg mercy of the Pooka.

 

He grants none- he has come for destruction and he will not settle for less.

 

Those that beg he leaves split open at the belly, measuring his blows so that they will lay dying, listening as those around them suffer a worse fate.

 

Easily, he makes himself deaf to the noises they make, flattening his ears against his head to keep the fighters from pulling. He roars to quake their nerves and silences one traveler with a shove of his paw, knocking him to the ground. He pins his paw to the man's throat and snaps his teeth cleanly into his soft belly to tear away the outermost layer of flesh and fat and fabric, spits it to the ground as the body convulses.

 

He does not care enough to finish; he leaves this one twitching and moves swiftly to the next, his mouth curled wide and fur spiked with glee as he thrills in the chaos.

 

They were a group of thirty before he arrived, crossing the empty plains in covered wagons pulled by horse and oxen both. Now they are all scattered: two wagons have escaped him, he can hear them still, racing to put distance between them, but he does not care. Let them escape, they will pass on news of his attack and the woodland in this area will remain clear for as long as the stories are still fresh.

 

One of the vehicles lies shattered on the ground a ways past him, eight dead or dying inside. He ran into that one first: he came running the moment he heard them, sprang up to rock into the wooden vehicle, smashing into it with powerful legs and sent it crashing to its side, crushing all within.

 

A thin wail sounds from within but he pays it no mind. He bares his teeth at one of the remaining oxen, a challenge, but the great stupid beast balks at the sight of him and careens clumsily into its yoked partner. Their massive bodies collide brutally, horns clashing together in their attempt to get away, hooves stamping wildly on the ground. The wagon tethered to them is empty, its occupants strewn amongst the grass, some sobbing and dazed as they struggle to pick themselves up and others already running from the scene.

 

Bunnymund drops to his paws and rolls his shoulders to prepare for a chase, blood pooling on his tongue to drip from between his lips. The cool morning wind cards knowing fingers through his fur as he falls into a powerful stride, encouraging him.

 

The smile that lights his eyes he keeps secret, moving too quickly for any around him to properly glimpse his face. There is a new vitality in his body that he has never felt before, a new wildness bursting from his paper veins to fill him with the most addictive kind of exhilaration. He runs and his paws seem to hardly touch the ground, his ears hardly seem bothered by the usually unbearable high pitched screams the children release. There is change in him now- he has come _alive_ again, his heart pulses noticeably now in his chest and it is not from the exertion of his activities.

 

Though it is the sunlight that touches his shoulder, in his mind Bunnymund feels the silver touch of moonbeams, long ago made familiar to him.

 

 _He lies there still,_ _safe: he d_ _reams of you._

 

Bunnymund does not need to voice his gratitude towards the news. Both feel it heating his chest as vibrantly, violently as a second small sun: in their own way they are connected, this one forgotten entity and the other ageless beast. They have known each other for longer than this earth has breathed- Bunnymund has never been entirely sure what part he plays for this Man that sits and watches from the Moon, but he has rarely had cause to question him. The Man has never asked a single thing of him, only keeps his place in the eternal mass of stars above as Bunnymund runs rampant across the world.

 

The Man speaks again, this time his voice more distant.

 

_There is bad blood in him. He will have need of you when he wakes._

 

Bunnymund stops running then, his heavy brow furrowed, a growl leaking from his throat. _The dreams._ Will the ghosts of Jack's former life never cease to haunt him?

 

When he tenses and leaps, the figure before him is still unaware: he screams as he is sent crashing to the ground beneath Bunnymund's paws, nearly crushed by the Pooka's weight.

 

He howls in agony, the usual “Please no, please!” He looks to be older than Jack by a handful of years, wears his jaw prickled with stubble, lips full and cracked; clever enough to know he cannot fight the Pooka off; instead of beating at him and continuing the senseless pleading, he clasps his hands together and closes his eyes to the monster atop him, stumbling into prayer with pious fright.

 

“-plead the blood of Christ to save me from this evil one-” He stammers, as if the faster he recites the words the faster the supposed holy protection will come, “I claim the power of the holy spirit over all the kingdom of darkness, for greater is-”

 

“He won't help you.” Bunnymund cuts in dismissively. His celebrating is done here- half the party is killed and the blood on his muzzle is heavy and slick. He wants his doe, not this pathetic boy and his stranger's fingers. “But I can.”

 

He chews the boy's throat through to the bone and leaves the rest to chaos.

 

I I I I I I

 

_Jack has never seen so many people before._

 

_They swarm and stream around him, endless lines of them pushing past his still frame. They walk into fearsome, enormous buildings with odd rotating doors and distorted, ugly lights on dirty glass or merely continue down the hard path, their attire strange and new, unlike anything Jack has ever seen, their hands and backs burdened with what he supposes are bags and satchels styled differently than what he is accustomed to. Devices like those he has seen in previous dreams, small and black and silver and sometimes just as brightly colored as the lights that flash around him rest in their pockets and hands; some are raised to their faces or the sky, and his stomach does a funny lurch when he realizes their surroundings and visages are mirrored exactly through the devices. All around him there is noise, loud ceaseless crashes of sound: voices, terrible screeching vehicles, a strange relentless hum that emanates from the buildings themselves._

 

_All of this is strange and terrifying in its newness to him, but for now that matters not, for when Jack looks behind and about him, he realizes he is alone._

 

_Fearful, he calls a name; it flits from his lips sounding more a question than a cry for help, lost as he is. His body snaps forward, released from its confused hold: now, it is fear that moves him. This world holds no interest to him without his buck. Some passerby scowl and scoff at him, jerk away like he is vile. Some step aside and do not notice him at all. He does not care, there is only one he searches for._

 

_There is no answering sound; he fears his voice is lost over the commotion. There are far, far too many people, how will he ever find his buck? In his human shape his senses are considerably weakened; there is little to no chance of Jack being heard over this din._

 

_What if he is not found?_

 

 _Terror springs anew in his chest. That cannot be. He cannot let it_ ever _happen._

 

_He screams out the name again, his voice pitched high into the air, legs no longer stumbling. He runs, fights his way past the people that pay him no mind or cry out in annoyance at him, tears streaming down his face. The name rips from his throat once more, and in his inattention he nearly collides headfirst into a tall column of aged black metal studded with signs. He is saved from the pain of it when he is grabbed and swept up into strong, familiar arms, so much so that he lapses into loud, terrified sobs that wrack his frame, throws his arms about his buck's neck and clings desperately, burying his nails into the hot skin._

 

_How much larger the world has grown, how much more terrible._

 

“ _I'm sorry!” He gasps, tangling his fingers into his buck's hair, clutching at his jacket, whimpering when he is clutched hard in return. The fear of abandonment has never truly left him: it crashes back into his mind like a tide intending to drown, fierce. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stray!”_

 

“ _Quiet.” Bunnymund whispers roughly to him, hauling Jack up into his arms like he is a small child. The stream of passerby around them does not ebb, either paying no notice or casting them odd looks as they go past, cutting a wide swath around them, but he does not care in the least. He crushes Jack to him so that there is no possible hope of space between them, his throat working for something akin to a growl, a purr- it is these moments Jack lives for, when their breaths merge to one wind and when their hearts are pressed so close that there are no such things as separate beats._

 

_The Pooka buries a kiss into Jack's hair. In his human form, his lips are full and soft, but his kisses remain as hard and unforgiving as they have always been._

 

“ _It's alright. It's fine. I found you.” He says. Outwardly he appears unaffected, gruff, but Jack can sense the relief in his hard-gripping fingers, the anger at himself for allowing them to become separated embedded deep in the knots of his muscles where their bodies meet. “You're with me, Jack.”_

 

_Nodding, clearing his throat, Jack agrees with him. He drops his head to the crook of his buck's shoulder, gathering a white-fisted handful of his collar and clenching it close. “Can we go home now?”_

 

_Bunnymund laughs into his hair quietly, and the sound is sweet, amused, not unkind. “Yes.”_

 

I I I I I I

 

When he returns the nest is as dark and still as ever, and his doe still lies asleep.

 

He has not taken more than a step inside before his nostrils are flaring sharply, greedy for the stench of sex redolent in the nest's quiet air. It casts his mind directly to the whole week they have spent inside with nothing known to them outside of each other- though the nest is properly ventilated, the reek of their activities still lingers, stinking of sweat and fresh earth, semen and blood, shared heats rusted with the damp of rain that looms miles overhead in a brighter world. To the side of the nest lies the satchel he often carries slung around his shoulders on his voyages above, empty: later, he tells himself as he enters, smiling as the lights within beckon him closer, shining their light to his destination, he will take Jack above and they will bathe, and he will find food for his doe. They have both eaten ravenously during the week, fallen to a rhythm of sleep, eating, and sex. He has plentiful food stores in the tunnel adjacent to this one, but his doe will only have the freshest and best, nothing that has sat waiting.

 

Later, he reminds himself firmly, he will do this. First, a taste, a small sip to quench his thrist.

 

He slinks through the dark corridors to pause at the nest's outer edge, gazing down in silent admiration at the sight of his doe's naked form. He sleeps curled on his side, one arm bent to cradle his head in his hand, the other nearby, the palm resting obliviously atop claw-scraped soil. The thick fringe of his eyelashes against his freckled cheeks twitches minutely; he dreams even now. He is not as filthy as Bunnymund had been earlier- he could not help taking every opportunity to stroke his tongue down those slender thighs, grooming the panting little creature to perfect cleanliness, cleaning of him of his buck's spent seed, only then to stain them with more and begin the process anew.

 

He lowers his head to rub his nose into the soft flesh of an inner thigh, caressing: upon recognizing his own scent there, obvious and thickly layered, the black of his pupils swells to overtake the green, enticed. It takes much effort to refrain from cupping the marked hip in his paw and pulling close- he does not do anything, he does not give in to the temptation to touch and taste. There is plenty of time given them, and for now his doe must rest. He is eager to please, determined to match his buck's stamina, but he is still muchly inexperienced: he was sobbing into Bunnymund's kisses by the end of it, no longer capable of speech or movement and whimpering of his aches.

 

Bunnymund lies next to him and dozes, content to wait.

 

Stars burn behind his eyelids.

 

They burn faintly, as they are only mere echoes of those that lived before them, but in them he sees himself as he was before, and the life

 

( _lives_ )

 

he lost.

 

It angers him to see the aged recollection of his former appearance, that ancient, ruined, fool of a thing- it angers him to see the light storm-gray of his fur, the white of his belly and the slow spread of his smile, the abundance of strength hidden beneath a gentle exterior- a warrior, but a soft one. So many thousands of years ago he had been hopeful and kind- his fur shone healthily and his paws had been clean of innocent blood, and he had known only to kill when his duty called for it.

 

( _some days he can hardly lift his paws from the ground for the weight of them._

 

 _he feels blood drip between his fingers when he sleeps,_ _he tastes it on his tongue when he wakes; metallic and thick as tree sap, syrupy, drenching the whiskers of his chin as though he has dined on another heart,_ _chewed the thick rubbery muscle to a dry nothing._ _on the blackest of nights when the_ _M_ _oon sits fat and heavy in the sky_ _old screams echo in the insides of his ears and ragged, split fingernails scratch at him until he wakes_

 

 _for the dead may be gone to ash and dust but they are not gone from his mind, nor has the memory of their flesh been struck from his claws_ )

 

In the stars he sees his home

 

( _endless scapes of moss and_ _stone_ _s_ _larger than himself_ _that wept in the dark months,_ _the three suns with their one moon and endless billion stars,_ _a people far too advanced to harbor notions of true safety,_ _tall pillars of carved rock and villages he fought to protect,_ _his nest hid deep beneath a slope of grass soft as sin and the abundant scents of freshwater and warm fur, earth,_ _ **life**_ _._

 

 _the_ _flora he misses most of all_ _\- only one species of it followed him here, and it grows in a great host wherever it is that he resides, a gift to him from his friend and savior._

 

 _he hardly remembers his own kind- oftentimes he does not wish to_ )

 

and in the stars he sees the worlds he traversed and watched crumble, faces and voices he once knew, all things he hardly remembers now, he has been grounded to this pathetic slow world for so fucking long.

 

All of this gone and stranger to him now- who is he now other than fabled beast come to punish and destroy?

 

He stares at the stars and in the space around them he sees the darkness that came and ravaged his galaxy whole, and the glittering black that spilled from a terror's heart, down its torn throat and into his own.

 

( _all that remains now of that life are his eyes, and even those are not as they once were_ )

 

This bothers him not; he has dreamt recurrently of this since his days began anew. The memories are not as clear and accurate as they once were, but it has been many thousands of years, possibly more. He has lost track of time, but moreso of himself, both past and present.

 

He looks closer, gazes past the black at the stars and novas that lie beneath, and in the depths of his memory stir five thoughts, each small and frail and lasting in the imprints they once left in the crooks of his arms and the swell of his then-red heart.

 

They blink at him, hardly capable of little more than a brief, winking flicker, and he flinches from the lights to force himself awake again as the sorrow lines itself thinly around his throat.

 

His waking thoughts are immediately of his doe.

 

One paw goes to cup a hip, the other goes to turn the sleeping body effortlessly onto its side, closer than before. Unperturbed by the move, Jack sleeps on, his features twisted subtly into a look of unease, some small fear come to haunt him in the night.

 

This displeases Bunnymund: he rests his nose against the doe's cheek and licks along his jaw, watching as the boy's throat works gently and then goes still. He shifts slightly and turns his face closer, and as Bunnymund settles his chin atop his head he calms visibly, all torment gone from his dreams. He watches in patient silence, nuzzling against the doe's hair, smelling scents he has known since the boy's birth. The freckles that dot the bridge of Jack's nose are similar to those possessed by his late father, similar to those that dot the sky's own temples at night, and the stars Bunnymund has just seen moments ago.

 

Thinking of the boy's father rouses a small shelf of memory.

 

( _dead at the foot of a tree,_ _sliced_ _open from chin to groi_ _n, steam rising from his split belly in the cold winter air._

 

 _he made sure the wife would be the first to find him; he waited in the night's tall grasses, watched as every last ounce of her courage fled her, idly wondering what the new widow would have done if she knew of the man's sins or the way he had screamed_ )

 

Bunnymnd observes his doe thoughtfully.

 

The two Overland men did not share a face. Jack looks nothing like his father did: he stands tall and long legged in contrast to the deceased man's shorter, stockier build. He resembles his mother only in the color of hair and eyes, nothing else- he is a child born of the stars and shards of moonbeam, forged to fit his Pooka alone. What little resemblance there is Bunnymund allowed for necessity: he has no doubt that if the boy had not those same lips and hues the villagers would have torn him from his mother's breast and wrung his weak little neck, clamoring for the hell-born child's death.

 

 _Yes_ , he thinks wryly to himself, eyes crinkling in amusement, _the doe is sent from hell to be sure, but he is no devil,_

 

_not yet._

 

As Jack sleeps, Bunnymund traces a claw over his unclothed sternum. Jack's flesh reddens vibrantly in acknowledgment, soft splotches of color appearing beneath his fingertip; freckles dance over bone and vein as he breathes in and breathes out, his genteel sighs a symphony like none Bunnymund has ever heard before. He releases a soft exhale, a tiny gust of breath, and inches closer into his buck's chest, one arm reaching up to settle against his buck's side.

 

How remarkable that even the smallest of sounds from him sends shudders of adoration deep into Bunnymund's chest: how many years he spent before, lying awake and wondering what his doe might sound like if he put a finger to his lips, if he touched his wrist, if he squeezed that ankle. It has not once failed to stun him, the knowledge that he has the means of knowing now; Jack is alive, Jack has come to him and he has unwittingly let himself be shaped and molded to perfection. There is _**no**_ more damnable waiting- he has his doe now, he has waited his hundreds of years and now he can do what he likes when he pleases, and he can sleep with his doe held tight to him. He enjoyed the resistance and the fear, but oh, to be held in return at last, to be sought out by a freckled little nose and lips that stain freshly red with even the tenderest kiss, hands that slide into his fur and grasp like they will never let go again- _oh_ , the beauty of it! In all his three hundred years of waiting Bunnymund could never have expected such satisfaction as this.

 

His gaze darts back up to Jack's face. He looks further soothed by the small touch; whatever discomfort lay there before is gone now, replaced by an easy serenity. Bunnymund only has to look closer to read the maps of his dreams, but today he has no desire to intrude, only to watch.

 

Forgetting himself, he makes the mistake of kissing the boy's nipple. It is a soft, slow brush of his lips against the quickly perking bud, but at his sides, Jack's hands twitch, and Bunnymund knows his doe hears his call even in deepest of dreams, even when it is not meant to be heard.

 

Jack wakes moments after, blinking suddenly to consciousness and turning groggy eyes to his buck, a soft and sweeping intake of breath yawning through him subtly to expand his ribs and swell his pink belly for the shortest of moments.

 

( _if only,_

 

 _if only._ )

 

He shifts; his pale hand sweeps down and up a pilose spine, thumbing into the tangled tufts of fur. Lying with their legs entangled together, the two creatures lie close, one purring at the other. Their lips meet with the soft, sleepy fervor often found in the mornings between the mouths of the most intimate lovers.

 

The sound of a kiss in otherwise absolute silence is marvelous, each creature thinks to himself. There is the wet smack of flesh- gentle, quiet, not obscene- and there is the shifting rustle of skin and fur against earth as they tilt for deeper touches, the quiet clicks of tongues and throats, the near imperceptible flutter of eyelashes on cheeks.

 

To Jack, it feels like this is the way it has always been. Like his every morning has been spent in this exact beautiful manner, held in arms larger than his own and scooped against a broad chest for kisses of sweet reverence. It feels as though this is all there has ever been to his simple little life: only this creature he knows as his buck and the exuberance of having him so evident in his eyes and paws when his cheek is cupped that it makes his chest flood with gargantuan love.

 

Bunnymund strokes his thumb over Jack's wet lip when he has pulled away, careful to avoid causing further harm to the deeper nicks he left there with overeager teeth the night before. “What did you dream of?”

 

It is hard not to turn away from him then, the moment's spell broken in the prompt to remembering. Jack keeps himself still and rustles his hand through the spiked fur on Bunnymund's spine, smoothing it down with a gentle press of his palm.

 

Questions of his dreams make him ill- he does not like the memories of his former life, nor the hurt they bring into his heart- he is certain they are come to taunt him, to show him the fool he once was. It is all his fault that he has been separated and alien to his buck for so long. How could he have been so blind to everything that was his by birthright, that should have been known to him from the beginning? His own stories, his own life, and his supposed friends and neighbors had dealt and gambled them all like it was their own, like Bunnymund was theirs to discuss and hold close.

 

He blinks hard to suppress the anger that tautens his throat at the thought, and digs his fingers into Bunnymund's fur, grasping him solidly. The venom that fills his mouth does not surprise him; selfishly, he clasps his buck to him until his knuckles strain white.

 

 _No,_ Jack thinks, resolute. _They will not have him._ _He is_ _ **mine**_ _._

 

His mouth flattens to a bitter line as he thinks. He dreamt of his sister the week before; she sat at the foot of a tall pine and twisted a flower in her hands without thought, distant to her mother's calls. Split at the middle, the chalky stem dripped slowly to stain the skirt of her dress, but she did not seem to mind. Smiling serenely down at the mutilated petals in her lap, nothing about the too-bright sunlight overhead or the bristly grass or her ill-fitting shoes seemed to phase her.

 

Does she dream of him? Does she remember him, after all these months, or is she unaware of his continued existence at all?

 

He dreamt of that new glass and metal world, of being lost and found; he dreamt of an old world, blackened with death and ruin.

 

_( “did you think it wouldn't end this way?”_

 

_thick, greasy smoke clots in jack's nostrils, acrid and gritty. he covers his nose with his palm to filter out the stink, exhales the fumes in a sharp cough, and feels a wave of nausea rock him when his hand returns black with blood._

 

_he looks up and is greeted by green eyes._

 

_the burning is so extensive, the smokeclouds so stifling and unrepentant that he cannot see any farther ahead, that bunnymund blends completely into the black. the piercing glow of his eyes is all he sees. the sight is jarring but not unfamiliar, almost laughably close to what Jack first saw of his buck so long ago._

 

“ _what's happening?”_

 

_bunnymund blinks slowly, unphased by the destruction or scorching air. “answer me.”_

 

_the blood on jack's hand drips down his fingers and into the grooves of his nailbeds. why is there smoke and heat but no fire? where is the nest, why have they not burned when they stand atop destroyed soil?_

 

“ _where are we?” he continues. “what happened here?”_

 

_bunnymund's eyes quirk at the ends. he is smiling. “does it matter?”_

 

_thoughtful, jack tilts his head. his eyes scan the void around him though there is nothing to see. His feet, bare and soiled, feel warmth underneath the ash. remnants of a fire, he thinks, and steps away slowly. there is no pain to his soles. the ground feels charred and brittle; smoke coils in lazy yawns from the earth, collosal pillars of black signaling to all and any for miles of a great and wretched end._

 

_he looks at his hand again and the blood is still there, and more. it has drenched the ground beneath him, but his legs on the earth feel strong and capable, balanced evenly on the rubble._

 

“ _no.” jack answers, his voice fallen to a quiet mumble. there is nothing here to see. “it doesn't.”_

 

_he hears a rough creaking to his side somewhere, the sound of something large crumbling and collapsing into itself._

 

“ _did you think it wouldn't end this way?” bunnymund repeats. )_

 

“I dream things I don't understand.” Jack answers truthfully.

 

Bunnymund rests his head against Jack's shoulder. The fur of his cheek tickles at Jack's skin, moreso than the finger he currently circles around Jack's nipple.

 

“You dream of what you want most.” He says, and it echoes familiarly in Jack's chest.

 

Smoke and ruin, Jack thinks. What could he want from that?

 

“What did _you_ dream?” He asks his buck, twining his fingers thoughtfully into a thick tuft of fur.

 

The Pooka takes his time in answering.

 

He is absorbed in his work; the rough pad of his finger rubs down lazily over Jack, occasionally joined by another to pinch and tug until his nipple has gone flush and stiff from the renewed attention and his belly aches with unspent heat. Frustrated at the teasing, Jack wriggles slightly; a whine traps itself in his throat before he remembers his new found freedom. He can make all the noise he wants now- he can hold fast to his buck and mouth at his neck, wrap his hands around the strong trunks of his arms and moan as loudly as he pleases.

 

The thought makes him giddy.

 

“I dreamt of my former life, too.” Bunnymund says absently, and Jack gasps, but he is not sure if it is for the confirmation of Bunnymund's knowledge of his dreams or the press of a tongue to his jaw again, hot breath on his cheek. “But mostly of you.”

 

Pleased at his words, Jack arches into his touch. Before, it unnerved him to hear the Pooka speak so plainly. It is somewhat excusable when he is not cringing in regret at the memory- he had been lied to for so long, his own instincts suppressed by deception from those he thought he could trust. It is not entirely his fault he made such a mess of their joining, but now he knows, and now there is no need to cower in fear or shame.

 

Thinking this, his lips curl at the edges, his smile almost coy: he feels strange, _daring_ , something he has not felt in months, perhaps years.

 

“How did you dream of me?” He prompts.

 

Bunnymund's smirk lasts but a second. He is more intent on Jack's body than words; his paw leaves Jack's nipple and smoothes up the slant of his chest to his neck, claws tracing and pricking at his skin.

 

“I dreamt of you wet and shivering.” The Pooka murmurs. “Did you know they have stories of your end, pet?”

 

His _end_?

 

Jack shakes his head and does not dare speak: he is too fixated on the word, as all are when conversation broaches death. The answer is unexpected: he was awaiting something more sultry, but as ever his buck holds him enthralled, morbidly fascinated at more tell of the stories he was never allowed to hear. He shudders in delight when the Pooka bends to his ear, whiskers tickling his jaw as he whispers.

 

“' _From ice will he emerge, silver-crowned and collared_ _by teeth_ _, unreachable to all but one_.'” Bunnymund recites, one paw slipping into Jack's hair, gripping thick handfuls of the soft strands. He tugs lightly and Jack's head falls back to expose the shadowy line of his neck, littered with bite-welts and healing scars. Green eyes rove the site wantingly, tracking each lasting impression of teeth on flesh and committing it to memory. No neck he has ever seen has looked so good as Jack's is now, bruised to oblivion with evidence of his buck's ardor. “That's what I saw in my dream.”

 

It takes Jack a moment to register the explanation, however obscure it may be. The words are unrecognizable to him- how expertly the villagers had managed to keep his own story from him, he thinks bitterly. His life must have been a game to them, an experiment for the curious and the cruel. Had they laughed and mocked his cluelessness?

 

He accepts a kiss. Bunnymund seems disinclined to expound: he rolls his long tongue into Jack's mouth for a sweeping taste, purring when Jack shifts up to meet him and deepen the connection.

 

Winding his arms around Bunnymund's neck, he pulls his buck close, bumping their noses and cheeks together, mingling their breaths so wonderfully he thinks he might never want to leave this embrace. He has never wanted so much as this: he has never wanted to be so utterly one and the same with another until now. What would it feel like to be merged completely into his buck's skin, to feel and hear and smell as he does, to feel the wild strength of him wrapped all around?

 

They part to breathe. Bunnymund caresses a knuckle down his cheek, his eyes gone quiet and tender.

 

“Am I going to die?” Jack asks him.

 

He thinks of the night they met and all the ones previous, the one where he ventured foolishly into the woods on his own for a dare, the ones that he spent sobbing for fear of the darkness. Will this doomed fate never cease burying him in its misfortunes?

 

Suddenly he regrets asking, hates himself for voicing his worry. If he is to die, he does not want to know. If all this must be taken from him then let it be with swift, sudden decision, so quickly he does not have time to weep or fear. How can he have just gotten what he has always wanted and have it so cruelly snatched away?

 

“Yes.” Bunnymund answers softly, the word a terrible blow to Jack's chest, striking the air from his lungs. Jack cannot tell if he sobs for the fear or the certainty of his answer. Roughly, he is pulled forward into a hard kiss, and his whimpers are swallowed by a larger hungry mouth, his nape cupped by a firm paw.

 

Jack supposes he has known all along. A creature like him, brought up in such a way... how else can it be?

 

Bunnymund breaks away as Jack slides his fingers into the fur over Bunnymund's heart and flattens against what he can reach of his skin. The Pooka's pulse is healthy and rapid, surging against his chest so that it feels almost as if it is trying to rip free of his body and press itself into Jack's palm. Jack has seen him rip that vital organ from bodies and sink his teeth into it as though it were the reddest of apples; he thinks if he had the strength and the will, he would sink his hand into his buck's chest to retrieve that piece of him, if only to bring it to his lips for a kiss.

 

“You'll die,” Bunnymund says, cupping Jack's cheek again, his busied fingers suddenly withdrawn, eyes soft with a knowledge Jack does not yet have access to, “But not in the way you think.”

 

Jack cannot help the tinge of panic crawling up his throat. Should he feel betrayed? Should he feel grateful that at least in this regard he has not been lied to? “Is that supposed to reassure me?”

 

His free hand goes to meet the paw on his cheek, cupping over it as if to keep the touch there forever. There are questions he desperately wants to ask but he can see the slow, sudden warp of exhaustion in Bunnymund's eyes, and he knows his buck struggles with the thought of it, too.

 

“Yes.” He repeats, and Jack falls silent, thinking this over.

 

Bunnymund lies back in the nest, drawing Jack against his chest and chinning him as is his custom before sleep and after sex. Jack does his best not to release any sounds of pain: his limbs are still sore. They curl into one another and try hard to forget the mention of death looming in the nest, dulling the flowers' glow to something melancholy and pathetic.

 

Jack's mind flashes back to his earlier dream, and he stirs at the memory of it. “What is a subway?”

 

Beneath him, Bunnymund pauses to think. “A mode of transportation. Was I with you?”

 

“Of course.” Jack says immediately. Confused, he nestles closer, upset at the possibility of being left alone. “Why wouldn't you be?”

 

The Pooka's mouth twists downwards, but only for a moment.

 

“Sleep.” Bunnymund orders gently, and Jack is lost to him in seconds. He loosens in his buck's arms, head lolling back, fingers relaxing their clutch on his fur. Bunnymund smoothes his fingers into the downy mess of his hair, admiring the white-silver strands that have more viciously begun to overtake the original warmth of brown.

 

There is little of it left; the surviving strands are hidden almost completely now by the new, snowy tint. Soon comes the time for death, Bunnymund thinks sadly, rubbing the soft strands between his fingers.

 

It is unfortunate; he did so love that particular hue.

 

I I I I I I

 

When he does meet with the Overland widow, it is on a cool, stormy night, too unusually warm and wet for this time of year. She is ushered in by his assistant; she greets his wife in her timid, careful way and ducks her head to him, murmurs “Father” as he welcomes her. The warmth in his voice is practiced; they stopped meeting in secrecy years ago. What use was there for stealth when every errant eye knew what they spoke of?

 

He leads her to his study, offering drink and nourishment: she thanks him and accepts none, blinking away the raindrops that trickle from her shawl to her brown fringe to her eyes. She looks like she has been crying- not an unusual sight.

 

They seat themselves as they always have, him in the chair behind the desk and her in the one before it. She shakes her head when he begins to clear away the mess of papers and stacks of worn volumes on his desk, lips tight with urgency, and so he stops, leans forward and gestures for her to continue what she had whispered to him in the chapel.

 

Her somber disposition disappears for a moment, replaced with the same wide-eyed alarm that gripped her then.

 

“I saw the creature.” She repeats in the same below-the-breath hiss.

 

“When?” Nichols asks, the color draining from his face. So _soon_... it cannot be so soon, they must find more time.

 

She stares at her hands, her lip trembling faintly. He knew her to be pretty once, young and firm in the faith. Before the troubles of her first pregnancy befell her she was a good child, kindly and not lacking in spirit. He remembers often how they walked together to the schoolhouse, read and learned their scriptures together, how once he thought he might have asked her father for his blessing. He never did, and he is glad for it now. He knows not if Jackson would still have been born into such dangers, but he is glad it was not he who fathered the cursed thing. As she had grown with child, she became less and less the girl he had known: listless, haunted about the eyes, she was prone to long stretches of vacant eyed silence, grew reluctant to step too close to any dark part of the woods that stretched on for miles behind her cabin and the village, all around. They had thought it to be the physical strain of childbearing, as her figure was slight, still riddled with girlish youth- how foolish they had been, to not see the signs there before them.

 

( _Her husband came running to Nichols one night, frantic, begging help._

 

“ _She's gone.” He had cried, pounding at the door with his clenched fist until Nichols had tumbled out of bed with an irritated cry of “Who in the blazes-?”_

 

_Nichols had opened the door to find Overland yelling himself hoarse, wild-eyed: he'd had half a mind to close the door and return to his sleep, thinking the man mad._

 

 _“_ _I found **blood** -” Overland protested, jamming the door with his foot. "She's gone, Father-help me find her. Please."_

 

_They had not needed much work to convince others to join them and form a search party. Her father was among the first to offer his aid- and he did not offer it, he forced it upon them, waving away their protests and concerns._

 

“ _Damn my age and health.” He had spat, snatching a torch from the farmer's boy with a gnarled hand. “He'll not have her, I swear it! Not_ my _daughter!”_

 

_He need not have worried: there were no signs of the Pooka that night. Not to them._

 

 _They spent hours calling her name into the gaps between the trees, brandishing their torches to light dark corners: only those armed delved deeper into the dark woods, those accompanied by baying hounds._ _It meant death, wandering ill prepared into the macabre wood when only a month previous another corpse had been found,_ _but in that time, before Jackson's birth she was well loved. There was no fear or scorn toward her or the Overland in that time, not yet._

 

 _They happened upon the soon-to-be mother easily, as if they had been right on her trail from the beginning and not wandering in circles. She sat w_ _eeping in a_ _tranquil_ _pond,_ _one close to the village's border often used by the children for skating when the weather had gone frigid and the ice had sealed the pond's bottom away. S_ _itting waist deep in its murky waters, her_ _hands_ _were_ _muddied and clutched to her rounded belly as though she were in pain._ _They heard her muffled wails from a distance, and wondered how the sound had not been apparent to them at first. In the night's dead silence they_ _had been_ _the only sources of noise,_ _clamoring about with the sniffing hounds and the calls of her name. S_ _he must have heard them. Why had she not sought them out?_

 

“ _I got lost.” She had told them through her tears,_ _resisting when they attempted pulling her to her feet._ _She_ _leaned willingly into her husband's arms, the ends of her long hair floating serenely on the pond's surface. There was a despair on her face she could not give voice to- repeatedly she turned her head back to the waters, where the reflection of the wide moon's speckled surface loomed, and she seemed to shrink away from something but at the same time appeared unable to look elsewhere. When she was successfully tugged out of the pond, they realized the blood left behind on her bedding had come from her wrists. She had scratched her nails deep into them, but upon questioning could not remember why she had done it, nor what had led her from the safety of her bed and into the quiet night._ _Her feet dragged behind her as though she had lost the ability to walk, the skirt of her nightgown entangling itself around her ankles. A blanket was brought to warm her but still she shook,_ _her hands cupping her unborn child protectively, the collar of her nightgown peppered with her tears._

 

“ _I couldn't find it.”_ _She repeated, shivering from the cold and hunching into the blanket around her shoulders. “He said it would be there.”_

 

“ _Who said what would be there?” Her husband asked. The eldest and only son of the Overland family, he held her protectively to him,_ _one elbow in his hand while her father held the other. Together in the midst of the party, they guided her home, careful to avoid touching the bloody rips on her wrists. Though she had been safely found, the search party returned in grim, uneasy silence. There was much relief expressed over her return; several kissed her on the cheeks, clasped her delicately for fear of bumping the baby and promised both would be in their prayers that night- but that was the night the first serious qualms against her grew._

 

“ _ **He**_ _did.” Lorraine had said,_

 

_( 'Laura,'_

 

 _he ha_ _d called_ _her, in their youth when they were closest friends,_

 

_when she had been quick to laugh and sneezed at dandelions tickled under her nose,_

 

 _'Laura, come pla_ _y._ _'_ )

 

_and did not ever offer any other explanation, convinced they all knew whom she spoke of. For years the question of the name was brought up in hopes of finally solving the mystery the night of her disappearance had been, but each time she went pale and looked away, acting as if she had not heard. )_

 

They have not been friends now for a long time.

 

Does she still think prayer can save her? Does she still kneel at her bed every night to whisper pleas for her boy's life into her fists? It does not take a hard look now to tell she is more devoted to the faith than ever, but the pretty youth is gone from her cheeks and replaced with lines of despair.

 

Which brought them about first, Father Nichols wonders to himself, the birth of her son or the murder of her husband?

 

“Laura- _when_?”

 

“A month ago.” She confesses, refusing to meet his eyes. “He spoke, but I heard little of it. It might have been a different language. I thought it was a dream.”

 

“Do you dream of him, as your son did?”

 

The widow's eyes wrinkle, tears gleaming within as she fights not to let them spill; she shakes her head. She must regret telling him now, Nichols thinks- who could suffer through such madness? Who could merely stand by and watch as such atrocities took place?

 

“Not dreams.” She says. “Not visions, either. I just.. I see him when my eyes go out of focus. Like he waits, like he wants me to see.”

 

“And Jackson?”

 

Her lips form a tight line. She chews the bottom one and releases it when she has found the words she seeks. “More than ever.” Her honesty is forced: she has never been comfortable in telling. “Father, I see him in my dreams and I am afraid.”

 

 _Lando_ _n,_ he wants to say _._ _You used to call me Landon._

 

_I see him too. I see him battered and clutched by black paws. I see him on his knees vomiting black blood into waters that glow bright blue underneath._

 

Too much has gone unsaid between them over the years. He does not know if he is grateful for it or not. Would they have been able to have any effect on such a malignant curse if he'd intervened sooner?

 

“What do you see?” He asks. He does not want to know, but he must. It is his duty.

 

It is not cold in his study but she hunches her shoulders like she is trying to conserve warmth, shivering as if a cold breath has gusted across the wet folds of her shawl and tangled into the mussed, drooping bun at her neck. She glances about the room fearfully, out of habit: they have been having these talks since Jackson's birth, some seventeen or so years now, and still she is terrified of being overheard, unsure that his promises of discretion are true.

 

She finds no one waiting behind the bookshelves, no one crouched behind his desk to listen, and still she mouths her words cautiously, made paranoid by the years of gossip and cold rumors she and her family have endured. The black lace of her simple dress rustles as she palms at her temples to calm herself, sluicing the remaining raindrops away with her palms.

 

“It was never as bad as this.” She begins, wavering slightly. “Before, it was only the sounds. Only the darkness- I always dreamed of the same thing: waking to find him gone, his bed empty, the door and wall slashed to pieces.”

 

Nichols nods tightly, remembering. For years she had come to him with the visions, begging his help to make them stop. What could he have done? He had no means to soothe her suffering beyond sending for the apothecary, ordering that she be given calming teas, provided herbs and medicines that would help her sleep and clear away her headaches. He has been doing such for years, and it makes him feel _ill_. It is wrong to feel that way: he is a man of God, he is meant to help his flock and guide them to goodness. But the woman is the cause of all his strife in the first place- she is the one who brought the child into their fold, she is the one what has brought mayhem upon them all.

 

_( The record book proves it. How else can it be explained? The number of deaths rocketed skywards in the years of Jack's adolescence, when he was too busy acting a mad little fool with his disruptive daydreams and odd trancelike behaviors to notice- it was solid proof of what was to come, all of it. Those numbers, those names and wounds and slaughtered livestock all proved it, all indicated the beast's growing excitement at having his promised at last- God only knows how much more the number will scale. )_

 

He has often wondered if that night they found her waist-deep in the pond was when it all became clear to her. There was no way she could have known when they were both young, before she was married- she was too happy in those days, too bright. However it had come to her, the awareness of her son's miserable existence had been given her that night as she sat in those waters. Previously there had been no sign of her being the poor wretch who would bring the doomed babe to existence. It is no less horrific than it is remarkable: how could she stand it, knowing that she would be the one she had heard about all her life to give birth to the betrothed of a monster? How could she get a moment's rest knowing she would nurse and scold and kiss and love a child that was never truly hers, that would grow to leave her in an instant for a better, greater love?

 

There must have been times she sought a way out of it. It is hard to make the assumption, but Nichols can see it in her face, hidden behind her eyes: her husband was not murdered for nothing. They may not know its ulterior motives, and perhaps there are none, but that beastly creature does not kill for nothing- Farran Overland must have done something to gain its ire. He paid for his folly dearly; Nichols has only to close his eyes and remember the morning the body was found to recall the smell of the man's innards.

 

It is the same with the day of the birthing: he can still see her exhausted and limp in the bed, cradling the frail newborn, ignoring or possibly still unaware of the print scorched red and hot into his tender skin as though he had been recently branded. He never knew if she hadn't seen the marking until he had. There has never been any possible salvation for Jackson Overland- he was lost to that darkness and whatever it entailed from the beginning. There is nothing they can do but play their parts as God willed them, for there is no place in the flock for one as damaged as he.

 

“I saw him _with child_ , Father.” She tells him, and his blood runs cold.

 

It is only the woman's grief driving her to such images, he reminds himself to keep calm, but he cannot help the horrified twist of his stomach. He is glad he hasn't called for tea, he would have retched it up at the very idea of it. There has never been any tell of such a thing in the books, nor the boy's own legends, therefore it cannot be.

 

“It will not come to pass.” He tells her gently. “Women are those blessed with the ability to bear life, not men.”

 

“But can we be so sure?” She asks. “Man is the only creature on this earth capable of loving, Father, and yet the way I have seen that thing gaze at my son I am sure I have never seen a heart more devout.”

 

The way she speaks of it... Nichols might have guessed the Overland widow has seen more of the beast than she is willing to tell, but this confirmation is a shock even to him, even if they are only temporary visions through which she is witness.

 

“That is different.” He admits. “The creature is known to bear resemblance to mankind. It has the mind of a man and animal both. What you saw... what you said.. perhaps he mocks you. It is not difficult to garner what he wants from the texts. He longs for a broodmare, and he has found what he thinks is one in your son.”

 

The widow's brow darkens.

 

The blow to his cheek is rough, edged with knuckles; he was wrong to think her grown weak in her depression, he thinks suddenly as his cheek stings and his mind reels. She is exceedingly thin, but there is still power in her.

 

“ _Do not speak ill of my son.”_ She hisses, and for the first time in years Nichols is speechless.

 

_( She always did so love taunting him for his love for his own voice._

 

“ _This is the quietest I've heard you since we met.” She said to him once, when they sat on a grassy knoll and ignored the books for the simpler pleasure of reclining in the summer's freshest grass, watching the sun peek down at them from above their leafy roof._ _They were not so young anymore as to easily get away with their laziness, but they had a moment to spare before returning to their homes, to their duties and rules and overbearing parents. “Are you alright? Have you lost your love?”_

 

_They had years ago lost the privilege of play for fun: she hemmed and repaired dresses with her mother, learned her prayers and cooked and cleaned, he hunted and studied his books and discussed theology with his father._

 

“ _My voice is my profession.” He had told her; the teases had never irked him, not when they were said with her bouts of light laughter. “I love it so that others may learn to do the same.”_

 

_She'd groaned and rolled her eyes, ignoring his grin. “Do shut up.” )_

 

He has not seen such life in her in so long- but how can she continue to defend and protect something so vile and out of her control?

 

She does not look away from him, not once, even as she lowers her hand and pushes away from the desk. “The others can say what they please of him, but not _you_.”

 

There is a step behind the door of his study.

 

“Father?” His assistant calls. “Mrs. Overland's daughter asks for her.”

 

He should throw her out, he knows. A woman that resorts to physical violence is unhinged, unseemly, unlearned. If he allows her this strike she will think herself entitled to the next, and what then?

 

But he does not- and he does not apologize, either, for it is the truth. The boy may be unable to bear but that does not mean the Pooka will not keep him around for other things.

 

“Let her in.” Nichols calls.

 

The door is opened and little Michaela steps awkwardly into the room, looking like she would much rather bolt back out. She gives Nichols the accustomed “Hello, Father,” and he offers a smile and a greeting, but the sight of her chills him. The Overland family seems prone to birthing offspring with oddities for birthmarks, he has noted. The little trio of freckles beneath her eye does not seem an innocent thing, but he has never voiced the suspicion.

 

Lorraine does not look at him again. She bends to collect her daughter and rests her on a bony hip, smoothing down her rainy wind-rumpled hair. All anger is gone from her face; she coos to the small thing and kisses her cheek, and for a moment a glimpse of a tender smile flashes on the girl's mouth- but then her eyes dart up to observe Nichols and she grows serious, her unnerving eyes tinged with distrust. She leans into her mother's chest, cupping a hand to her ear to whisper.

 

Like all children, she knows little of discretion: her voice rings.

 

“Did he say anything about Jack? Are we leaving?”

 

He is not privy to the answer.

 

Lorraine gives him a curt “Thank you, Father. Good evening.” and sweeps from the room, one hand cupped to the back of her daughter's head to keep her from bumping her head on the door frame. He watches them leave through the window, a mother still dressed in her mourning and her daughter perched protectively on her hip, both now wrapped in the damp shawl to hide from the now-lighter rainfall.

 

His cheek stings; he hopes it has gone red.

 

“Did you see it?” His assistant asks when he has closed the doors behind them, unaware of the storm that clouds the priest's mind. He is a brash young boy, still learning. He keeps silent when he knows it best, but when it is only them two he runs a mouth like a faucet, spewing gossips and rumors and secrets and silly songs he has learned in the schoolyard. An annoyance at best, but Nichols has need of him: the duties of record-keeper must be learned early, and despite his chatty mouth the boy has already showed promise.

 

Nichols does not turn from the window. “See what?”

 

“The girl.” Isaiah says, moving to the desk. “Her shoes were covered in soot, looked like.”

 

The news is not particularly interesting, nor incriminating. “So she has been playing in the fire pits. All children do it. I did, once.” Nichols turns to look at the boy, nonplussed. His gaze darts to the floor, and he sees the boy does not lie: there are black smudges where the girl stood. “What of it?”

 

Isaiah gives him a baleful look, pausing the motions of his busy stacking of books. He has yet to learn respect for his elders. “What do we do with the bodies we find?”

 

_We burn them._

 

_We take them to a field some few miles out behind the graveyard and we burn them. We dig a trench and watch the smoke rise up until there is nothing left._

 

He shakes the thought from his mind, daunted by the thought. How is it that every meeting he has with any of the remaining Overlands always leaves him feeling so poorly? Already he feels the ache in his skull inching into the backs of his eyes to drive him back to bed- will he end up like all the others before him, those that died bedridden and gibbering madly of nasty visions?

 

“What are you implying?” He demands. “Boy, if I have told you once I have told you a thousand times-”

 

Isaiah does not fear his ire. He is grown accustomed to taking any liberty he likes; he speaks right over Nichols, cutting off his warning. Why Nichols ever agreed to take him on as apprentice is beyond him now more than ever. “Her hands, too, Father. Dirt under the nails. She's been digging.”

 

He freezes, and this time he cannot hide his shivers. This has turned out to be a day full of revelations- as if the omens from the week before had not been enough.

 

The boy lies with the Pooka- that much he knew already. The book of records has never shied away from truths.

 

“He will take the creature's seed into him,” one passage reads, “and bear him a love eternal.”

 

_( “He will die.” Lorraine told him years ago. "I know it."_

 

 _If only, Nichols_ _thought, and said instead:_ _“_ _That we know of, the book does not mention such._ _There are_ _several mentions of oddities we cannot decipher, but there is no death.”_

 

_Her hands fluttered to her belly, fingers ruffling the fabric of her dress._

 

“ _It is not just the death.” She whisper_ _ed_ _, adamant. “I do not know the name, but it is more terrible than that.”_ _)_

 

But there is more to it than that- something he has overlooked, something he remembers now as he looks back out the window and finds mother and child gone from his field of view.

 

Another passage reads, “And she who is left behind will search, that her mind may be put at the rest he who was taken will not have.”

 

“ _Oh.”_ Nichols says distantly.

 

I I I I I I

 

Bunnymund does not know what his true age is.

 

This has never bothered him, and perhaps it never will, but in the times that he lies awake and regards his doe's devastating youthfulness, he wonders.

 

Jack has lived less than eighteen years. Such a tiny, insignificant number- he has experienced so _little_ life. There lies so much more beyond all this, these tiny villages and their miserable existences devoted to the faith and the word of some Good Book. There is so much more to see, to do- he has seen what lies in the years ahead, and he has grown bored with what there is now. That is the trouble with seeing ahead: it breeds impatience, dissatisfaction.

 

Often he has wondered what his own life would have been like if Jack had been there from the very beginning. What if Jack had been there as he had woken in a new world, as he had been given new life and form and wrought the earth's iron veins with the blood of those that did not deserve to breathe?

 

The reason for the wait

 

_( three hundred years of hatred and agony and his mind torn further apart )_

 

was necessary, the Man in the Moon had told him, and it had infuriated Bunnymund, it had sent him to deeper, darker depths of new-found rages- but he had not intervened. He had always questioned the decision, but he had never argued despite his anger. He was being given a great and beautiful gift, what cause had he to complain?

 

For his cooperation he had been gifted with knowledge of his doe's developing appearance and self, his piety and love for his family- seemingly worthless scraps of information, but they sparked a deep interest in him. They were glimpses of his future mate, how could they not?

 

It amuses him now, to know that his doe shares little with his ancestors of the same sex: every man in the Overland family has been pious and hardworking, true god-fearing men dedicating their lives to stay worthy of the holy light they believed in. Jack has never been as active in the faith as them, he has never prayed as fervently nor has he ever truly sought to absolve himself of the darkness that has consumed him. He did his work with little complaint but was quick to leave them for more entertaining things, disregarded all dangers for the smallest amount of fun.

 

Once, he was a bright, wholesome thing, blinding in his goodness and infuriating in the sweetness of his nature, however heavily the trickster side to him may overpower it at times.

 

That all ends here, Bunnymund thinks to himself with great delight, observing the display before him.

 

Though his control over himself has steadily been stripping away from his core as the minutes pass, he forces himself to take deep breaths and enjoy the moment for what it is, for the lasting beauty of finally seeing his doe twitching with willing pleasure, for the satisfaction that erupts roughly from his chest in a hard growl at the sight of him spreading out on his knees and elbows.

 

Thighs spread wide, ass poised at the perfect height in the air to meet Bunnymund's hips, Jack rests his round cheek in the crook of his elbow and presents himself eagerly, a thin, urgent whine escaping him as his cock dribbles its pearlescent drool to the earthen ground, as Bunnymund presses a kiss to his entrance and pushes his tongue at his hole for the briefest second.

 

It is a sign of utmost desire and trust, the sign of the doe submitting, relinquishing power to the buck: it is lewd and perhaps coarse, but there is no other way Bunnymund would have him. It is instinct driving him to the pose; never in his dreams did he offer himself in this manner, but now that they have come this far, now that he has learned the truth and every blockade he set to dam the rampant flow of filthy thoughts has crumbled he has let himself fall perfectly vulnerable to the innate urges. His body rages for his buck's touch and Jack submits readily to the process of achieving it: bent over, he keeps his gaze on Bunnymund, watching as the Pooka moves instantly to him, closer, _closer_ , granting his every silent request for touch.

 

_( bunnymund thinks he might crush the boy with a single squeeze of his paw- too great is the hunger that has burned within him, too vicious the need- he must calm himself. there is no need for his doe to suffer any pains now, not when he has presented himself so prettily, not when they have both endured such great lack of each other-_

 

_there will be no more of that, never again )_

 

Keening raggedly, Jack pushes back onto him, and Bunnymund replaces his tongue with a digit, reattaching his teeth to the already pinched flesh of Jack's neck. It presses in to gorgeous heat, meeting resistance when Jack tenses, still unused to the sensation. Bunnymund watches closely at the knots of his twitching muscles as he pushes his finger deeper, stroking tenderly at the tightness of him, slick and messy from the time he has spent preparing him in his unwitting sleep.

 

 _(_ _awash in his adoration,_ _he_ _settled himself between the slim thighs and rubbed his nose along every inch of skin,_ _licked jack open til he woke with a needy cry, the little sound startled and euphonious in the nest's ringing silence. he woke wildly and twisted to clench his palms into his buck's ruff, perfect teeth bared in a soundless gape. his eyes possessed no fear, only fierce blue smatterings of the want he woke with._ )

 

“More.” Jack begs him, his cheeks red like he is with fever. It is more than that- it is want in its basest form, lust drenching his chin and instinct rocking hard into his veins, demanding that he spread himself wider open, snarling for him to sound out his pleasures, baying at his fingers to seize into those powerful shoulders, urging him to let loose, to allow himself to be inundated in the heady rush of knowing that he is the one bringing his buck to his knees, that he is the one who causes such helpless growls and sets those terrible teeth to chewing at his neck, that hard sizeable body pressing tight against his spine, crowding him to the ground until he is nearly crushed underneath his weight- and still he mewls for more, reaches behind himself with shaking fingers to clumsily grasp the engorged cock that lies ready against the cleft of his ass, slicked with running streams of hasty ejaculate and saliva. Quickly his palm grows oversaturated with the sticky stuff, but it only eases his strokes, brings forth louder hisses of pleasure from his buck's lips.

 

 _More_ , he must have _**more**_.

 

He gives himself freely, presents his body with an eagerness that has his thighs trembling, the sight devastatingly possessive of Bunnymund's gaze. In a breathless high pitch he pleads to his buck, voice still scratchy with his recently broken sleep. He does not yet touch himself: his cock hangs low from his body, stiffening a little further with each rub Bunnymund administers to the inside of him.

 

Bunnymund teases the pad of another finger at his rim and Jack twitches at the press, inches back on his knees to urge him onwards, legs splaying further open to tempt his buck forward, inward. He has never known another touch inside him. Despite the ferocity of his dreams he never dared venture inside himself, terrified of committing greater sin- always the curiosity had burned inside him, for if that warm creature could find such pleasure inside him, surely Jack could too? He feels the pain of the wide stretch as that finger sinks deeper in, and though there is that hungry gnawing at the peak of his shoulder it is by far more beautiful in its agony; he feels so raw, so _open_. Bunnymund does not seem to notice; he laps the spill of blood from broken veins and shushes his doe's gasps with gentler kisses to his cheek, sweet murmurs of

 

“Just one more, pet, one more and you'll be ready-”

 

A careful caress, his voice is the balm Jack needs: he quiets momentarily and stills, allowing the process to continue.

 

There is nothing of purity left in him now, not when he is soon rolling his hips to meet Bunnymund's touch, not when he is releasing such darling noises to the caresses administered to him. His face is screwed in concentration, cheeks flushed from the violence of the heat trapped between them, nipples and mouth and throat all pinched to high heaven with imprints of teeth, vibrantly red and still pulsing from the intensity of the love bestowed them by mouth and tongue. Distressed at the lack of attention, his cock goes on drooling, throbbing hard between Jack's thighs, so desperate for touch that it physically pains him.

 

It should be enough to send him to overwrought madness, but it is not. Not yet, _not yet,_ not until-

 

Bunnymund shifts forward, sliding through Jack's palms, angling his hips to tease the wet tip of his cock at the puckered rim. Jack's whimper breaks to clear path for a growl, a low rumble behind his teeth.

 

“ _More_.” He demands again, firmly. He is grown impatient, he is done with the cruel goadings.

 

Above him, the Pooka smiles his terrible smile, slides a paw into the slot on the boy's marked hip to watch the shivers ripple up the notches of his spine, the instant burst of ecstasy across his features. Still present on his face is the open wonder at how good submission feels, how good it is to accept what he is and let it be. He will never deny himself anything again.

 

To ruin the work of centuries is at once blasphemous and orgasmic; he has never had so much fun as this.

 

Again, Bunnymund taunts his doe with a roll of his hips, feels his skin prickle with heat as the growls grow louder. It is the most endearing thing he has ever heard come from this little creature- how he gnashes his teeth and mimics his buck's menaces! How he clenches his fists and releases those little cries of vexation! He was never so eager before- Bunnymund dreamed of this day for centuries, though he never could have guessed the boy would crumble to him so quickly- but what animal can resist instinct so perfectly ingrained? Here he is now with his belly to the ground and his neck bloodied- the freckles on his flesh will be licked and the fleshy meat of his thighs groped, the tight suction of his hole explored and eagerly despoiled, the flesh of his ass squeezed til he wrenches a cry from those swollen lips. He will have what he cries out for- he will have his fucking, he will be mated to his buck and he will never forget it so long as he may live. He will forever recall with trembling breaths the way he ultimately gave himself over to fate and begged for more;

 

this is where they _begin_ now, truly, doe and buck.

 

He takes hold of those pearly, blue-lit hips and flips Jack roughly so that he lies now on his back. Startled, the doe resists the change; he digs his heels into the ground and shoves himself closer to his buck, seeking the close contact they held in their previous position. His ribs flex lightly against his skin, calling for touch: Bunnymund presses his tongue to each faint bump of them, laving again over the pink nipples to restore them to their darker hue, greedy for the blistering snap of craving that sparks in his belly at the sight of them abused and scarlet. Long and stretched taut beneath him, Jack lies panting for breath, hair tousled and body bitten and pinched to black bruising, he looks sinful, ready. Corrupted to pools of near black, his eyes are half-lidded yet they remain alert, searching Bunnymund's green as he snakes a curious thigh around his waist. He is tentative still, unlearned in all matters sensual, but they have time: he will be taught, and he will progress.

 

“Why are you waiting?” He asks crossly.

 

A laugh rolls smoothly from Bunnymund's throat. He kisses the impatience from the doe's mouth and positions himself more securely between his thighs, hooking slender ankles over his shoulders. Snug against his perineum, his cock grants Jack a little friction; he whines more loudly this time, hips bucking up wildly in search for more.

 

“Why are you in such a rush?” Bunnymund replies, kissing him.

 

It is good to see this part of Jack again- the brash, fast-reacting Jack he knew in his years of observation, the Jack that teased and laughed and sought what he desired without much thought and lived for pleasure, for gratification. He must be careful to nurse it back to health, to shove aside what damage he has caused in his time of punishments and frights and teach his doe that life is good, now. There is no more reason for Jack to be afraid, there are no more stares that bite and hushed, fearful whispers that bleed- his life is his now, utterly _his_ , and the freedom forever more his to savor.

 

Jack shudders out a pleased sigh into Bunnymund's mouth, fingers stroking gently over his jaw. “I want to feel you.” He mumbles. “No more teasing.”

 

“Like this?” Bunnymund asks, and he strokes into Jack slowly, slipping a paw between them to smoothe the passage. “How does it feel?” He continues, the inquiry a mere rustle of breath, a low murmuration into Jack's cheek, for now it takes much of his focus to keep from shoving in outright. Jack's fingers clasp into the fur of his arms, trembling as Bunnymund strokes his hips to push deep. His eyes, large and wet from the stretch of his girth, never dare to close longer than a blink; he stares wordlessly up at his buck, the magnitude of his amazement pooling deep in his irises. Of course he is startled- this is not crazed, hungry fucking, this is not punishing rape. Their bodies are close and warm, Jack's legs willingly spread and held apart by nothing but his own will, their kisses long and heated. This is new, this is not simply sex- they are making love, and it is new to Jack, and just as wondrous.

 

“Good.” He whispers, his throat clicking drily. He is beautiful, radiant in the burnt glow of his need to copulate, no longer pallid and fearful of the thing he desires most. It is such a welcome change from how he was before- so drawn and silent, hands clenched tightly at his sides in the nights he could not sleep- that he almost seems a different person altogether. A breath catches in his throat, a tiny sound of pain. “It hurts.”

 

“Not for long.” Bunnymund promises him, stroking his hair away from his sweaty temple. There is no sign of anger or impatience on his face; he is gentle and affectionate, all smiles and kisses for his darling little doe.

 

Jack tugs Bunnymund closer and buries his nose into the fur of a wide shoulder, stroking his lips across the silken surface; he does not mind it on his tongue. It is only then that he allows himself to squeeze his eyes shut, freeing them of the tears that threatened to fall as his buck watched. Curious, Bunnymund jerks his hips forward the slightest inch and revels in the choked little cry that follows, the quicker leak of tears. He leans in to kiss away the droplets of dew, tracing his fingers over Jack's bare back to connect the freckles that dot across his shoulder blades like the smallest collection of stars.

 

Jack's knees shake; Bunnymund kisses the top of each and bends again to watch, fascinated. His eyes are wet glass, lit eerily by the glow of Bunnymund's own. He licks his lips before he speaks, tasting his buck on him and wanting more. He speaks unbidden, surprised at himself and the motions of their bodies.

 

“You feel like _home_.”

 

“Good.” Bunnymund kisses tenderly at his sweaty temple, a silent apology for the merciless move. He is sweet now, so caring, so cautious. “I'm your home now, pet. Do you understand?”

 

The doe makes no objection; he nods and clings silently to his buck as he is slid in and out of, as the tip of that engorged cock withdraws and pushes tortuously slowly again into his tight hole, smearing a sheen of semen around the lip. In the time it takes for Jack to adjust they kiss, and kiss, and kiss, learning each other more thoroughly than they ever have in their months together. Jack does not mind the oddity of the Pooka's lips, the angles they must keep to tongue deeper into each other. He does not mind the fur, nor the pain and claws. He learns his buck adores to nip at him: he arches into his paws as the careful bites sting down his neck and to his nipple and up again to his throat, to his ear, to his jaw.

 

They begin to set a rhythm: once Bunnymnd has sunk snugly into him he withdraws, achingly slow. Jack tugs insistently at his buck's proud ruff, a silent demand for more, but despite the manner in which he wriggles, bucking his hips to accept that cock deeper, Bunnymund pulls away, keeping just out of reach so that no matter how hard the doe tries he is not filled, reaching down to give himself a few pumps, letting his paw brush tantalizingly against Jack's cock. Frustrated, aching endlessly to satisfy the growing burn within himself, Jack releases another vexed little cry and pushes at his buck's chest with the heels of his palms.

 

“Come back!” He growls, and Bunnymund laughs, another wave of that endless adoration flooding through him. He obliges only then; he repositions his hips and fits himself inside once more, watching as Jack's spine stiffens, as his lips part to release a tremulous sigh, toes curling as though this is what he has been waiting for all his life, as though the very sensation of Bunnymund inside him is enough to bring Jack to the very highest level of bliss.

 

“Is this what you wanted?” Bunnymund asks, his tongue a hot dagger on Jack's neck.

 

Jack shudders; he reaches back for a kiss and is granted it, pants for breath as his mouth is taken. His cries are spurred into a higher whine when Bunnymund slaps his buttock and snarls into his ear, incensed at the lack of an answer. The brief spark of anger is no threat; he knows it is merely play, but the thrill of fright that encases him momentarily is just as good as the hard length within him- _oh_ , but he loves the danger of those eyes.

 

“Yes.” Jack whimpers, his voice failing him. The slide of Bunnymund against him, _in_ him, is more than he could have ever asked for; it sparks raging heat inside him, blazes fit to devour entire forests, things his own hands could never have hoped to match. But those days are gone, cast aside since the first moment of their meeting. He has his buck now and he will give in to that pleasure and bestow it in kind. “Always wanted you-”

 

A dry laugh rattles from Bunnymund's throat. “You did no such thing.”

 

He slows himself- the frenzied thrusts he began with fade and give way to agonizing, barely there brushes of his cock into Jack. “You were terrified of me- of not knowing me. You wanted nothing but for the dreams to end for even but a moment's respite.” He laughs again and drags a paw down Jack's belly, his teeth breaking momentarily into the skin of Jack's shoulder. Reminded of the first time that jaw clenched his throat, Jack goes still so as not to give reason for flesh to be torn, but this time he enjoys it, relishes the scrape of those teeth into him. “You swore to yourself once you'd find a way to stop those nightmares, told yourself you didn't want them or the _beast_ in them- yet here you are now, so stuffed with my cock you can hardly speak.”

 

Pulling away to lick blood off his teeth, Bunnymund struggles with the anger rising in his chest. It is irrational, he knows- he has nothing to fear. The doe is _**his**_. He has proved his devotion to Bunnymund, he has never laid eyes on another- but the thought, the possibility of it, stings and tears at him.

 

Jack screams when Bunnymund sinks into him swiftly, taken aback at the ferocity. Afraid, he claws at his buck's back, rolling his hips in small circles to accept the length and bear the pain; Bunnymund growls, and as he shifts to hiss into his ear he bumps something that makes Jack twitch with a shocked cry.

 

“You wanted me to go away.” Bunnymund hisses. “Would it have been better for you if I'd never existed at all, pet? If you'd dreamt of a handsome, _normal_ man instead of me every night? Better yet, a woman?”

 

“ _No_!” Jack protests, but his voice goes ignored- the jealousy is taking root in Bunnymund now, building fast. Thinking quickly, he pushes up off the ground and shoves at his buck's chest to knock him back; whether Bunnymund lets himself be moved or is too distracted to keep a firm hold he does not know, but he takes advantage of his inaction, crawling up to his knees and straddling the Pooka, winding his fingers into thick fur as paws grasp his hips. Bunnymund does not anger or move back until Jack is settled atop him, lets his doe grasp his wet cock and growls as he positions himself, rising a few inches to slip him in carefully, fumbling slightly. Jack takes him eagerly back inside, bending forward to kiss his buck soundly, calmly, licking every trace of anger from his mouth.

 

“ _Never_ _.”_ Jack says urgently, taking his buck's face in his hands and kissing him again, breathing in the sharp, still-angry snarl the Pooka releases. “I don't want anyone else. I promise, Bunny. I've never wanted anyone else, I never will.”

 

He does not offer a chance for the Pooka to reply; he struggles to find a comfortable angle, uses the strength in his legs and thighs to push himself up, balancing himself on knees and hands above his buck as he rides the Pooka's cock slowly down, then up again, his hips faltering on occasion, unused to the movement.

 

“They may have kept the brunt of the truth from me but I always felt your gaze on me. I sensed you, I dreamt you, I smelled you nearby in the markets, heard your steps behind me when I was alone. I let them put that fear into me, and I clung to it because that was all I knew.” He whispers, burying his cheek into the fine fur of Bunnymund's throat, listening intently for the soft sounds of pleasure that emanate from within. The paws on his hips give him a slow squeeze; those green glowing eyes have slitted again when he draws back to look, but there is no more rage in them. Mad with the sincerity of his words, the earthen scent underlying his thick fur and the need to calm his jealous rage, Jack rocks back onto his buck, riding him as quickly as he dares with all his inexperience. It is clumsy and slow, and several times he pulls too far off and causes Bunnymund's cock to slip out, but he repositions himself each time, desperate to show truth. “I would have never, and will not ever have another man.” He promises, lips buried in his buck's shoulder now, tracing the lines of the muscle he can feel underneath, his heart leaping into his throat when he hears a louder, more audible purr, when the hips beneath his have begun to move to meet his. A half-laugh escapes him; for a moment, he cannot tell if it is a brief fit of hysterics or amusement. “I'm _your_ doe, remember?”

 

The slits of Bunnymund's irises round out slowly, all danger gone in moments.

 

“ _Mine_.” He repeats, smirking, snapping his jaw to give Jack's outstretched fingers a nip, licking the palm of his hand. Pleased and tranquilized, he returns to the soft disposition he held just moments ago, once again the caring buck. He does nothing but purr and moan at his doe, unclenching his jaw to kiss him in return, satisfied by his words. He grinds his heels into the ground and lifts up his hips to fill his doe more completely, transfixed by the manner in which the flowers' light glimmers on his hips and the pointed tips of his nipples, the dance of ribs beneath his freckled skin, the strain of tendons in his slender neck. His hair looks made of the finest strands of silver, wispy and ruffled to perfection, framing over Jack's furrowed brows and swaying gently with the movements of his body. Jack nuzzles sweetly into the paw that strokes through it, eyes closed to savor the bliss of their mating, the slow outward drool of semen from his hole as Bunnymund pushes in yet again, growling lightly as another orgasm takes hold of him, adding to the mess until it leaks thickly from inside Jack, coating the bottoms of his thighs.

 

Bunnymund pulls out smoothly, his cock bobbing in the cool air. He pumps himself vigorously, still erect; semen and slick drip off him in thick ropes, spattering beautifully over Jack's milky stomach and thighs. His marking, still red from where Bunnymund lost control and seized it with his teeth, burns a violent red in acknowledgment of its creator. Jack shrieks when Bunnymund gives it a rough squeeze, writhing from the pleasure the contact brings, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade as he comes, loud and flustered. When he catches sight of his flushed skin, feels those slender fingers bury themselves so much deeper into his fur to reach his flesh, Bunnymund loses sight of the slow pace he began with and succumbs to his instincts yet again.

 

He rumbles an order into his doe's ear and helps him to move back to the ground, onto his belly: he takes the doe from behind this time, watches the curve of his spine tense and arch, watches his muscles spasm and clench as he wails loudly, string after string of amorous little cries that leave him hoarse and dry-throated, a problem fixed when they kiss again. Any bruises and marks that faded over his resting period are remade again, more vividly, brutally; it should be a terrible sight, all this abused skin, but it only leaves Jack wanting more, his mind going dizzy when he looks down at himself and sees the firm proof of what they have done. He asks for more and receives it- when Bunnymund plunges in deep and pushes hard exactly into the right spot, Jack goes wild, screaming out sobbed pleas of “There! _THERE_!”, losing himself to the intensity of the strokes in him and on him as a skilled paw squeezes his cock and rubs, stroking languidly then far too fast, overwhelming him til he thinks he might lose conciousness. He rocks himself on his knees and elbows, fucking himself on his buck's cock, greedy for more, fingers and arms shaking, cheek pressed to the dirt. When Bunnymund rests his back against the nest's edge and pulls Jack into his lap for another ride, he is so exhausted he can hardly think coherently, but at this point it does not matter, there is no need for thoughts or words. He sinks onto his buck and arches into his arms, grips his ears and laves his tongue over the still tender rip the waheela left behind, mewls out a cracked “ _Bunny_ -!” when the raw flesh of his shoulder is kissed and he is pounded into. He breaks apart to a stammering mess when Bunnymund makes that particular spot his target; he comes again, dry, his cock blazing and oversensitive to the activity, his ejaculate long run out, body tensed and abused to the point of over exhaustion- and still, there is nothing more beautiful in the world to him than this, than the joining of their bodies and the praise that his buck mumbles brokenly into his bare shoulder, the promises of love and care and kits and safety snarled into his lips.

 

When their movements have slowed he is left with a heavy spill of semen slicked all along his body, disgustingly, beautifully thick. It slides slowly down his thighs and belly, seeps from inside him with the gentlest movements. It should feel horrible, unclean, wrong, but the curious heat that comes from it makes his lips curl into a satisfied smile, makes him drag trembling fingers through the pooled, pearly mess. Bunnymund watches him as he tastes it, inky pupils slitting thinly and filling out to their regular size as he struggles to keep his calm. He will wait- he does not want to exhaust his doe yet again, and wait longer for more.

 

He has forgotten completely of the bath and food he had planned earlier, he realizes as he strokes his tongue over Jack's thighs, cleaning him so that he may sleep more at ease. He dips his tongue between his thighs and cheeks and settles a firm paw over Jack's hip to stop his squirming, though his ears twitch attentively at the near-giggles that come from his doe, the little huffs of breath.

 

“Stop that, unless you want me to mount you again.” He reprimands when Jack has curled a hand around his ear gently, stroking the inside of it. He has learned there is a sensitive spot just inside that pulls forth endless rumbles of contentment from his buck's chest: a harder graze with the tip of his finger ensures more physical reactions.

 

Shifting reluctantly and feeling the slow, throbbing burn inside himself, Jack obeys, his lips twitching upwards at the corners.

 

Even when they are both fully sated, he remains reluctant to part with his buck. As Bunnymund moves off Jack to collapse onto his side, he grasps handfuls of his fur and yanks, earning a short growl from his buck. Jack smiles, feeling something like a laugh spring up his throat as he slides his hands over his shoulders and digs his nails into the Pooka's shoulderblades to keep him in place.

 

“Stay inside me.” He says.

 

Bunnymund smiles. It is strenuous work to keep himself aloft over his doe as he positions himself, his limbs made weak as a newborn's from the intensity of the sex, but he finds he does not mind it, nor the clingy little hands in his fur. He has suffered years of loneliness and months of rejection from his doe- he has what he has hungered for, and he is utterly intoxicated on it.

 

After he has moved it is Jack who lies atop his buck instead. Still sheathed inside his doe, Bunnymund softens very slowly, occasionally spurred to stiffness once more when Jack shifts. He ignores it for the time being, too focused on the way the doe has nuzzled sweetly into his neck, his crown pressed just under the Pooka's chin.

 

“I wish it had been like this forever.” Jack whispers, thumbing into the black fur that cushions his buck's cheek, stroking his fingers delicately through it to undo the tangles he finds. He smells more strongly now of sex, if that is possible, but Bunnymund has no complaints. “I wish I'd always been with you.”

 

The sincerity in his words does not surprise Bunnymund. He purrs, grinding his chin down into his hair, amused more than anything that his doe thinks the same. “We have each other now, pet, and we'll be together for as long as the world is around.”

 

“But they kept me from you.” Jack says, his lips curling downwards slightly as he rises to look his buck in the face, visibly upset. “We could have been-”

 

“The time will come when they will regret it.” Bunnymund cuts in. He catches Jack's wrist and squeezes firmly, setting a good, hardy ache into the bone that rattles a soft groan from his throat, a sweeter one in his belly. In an attempt to tangle his fingers back into his buck's fur, Jack tries pulling away, but Bunnymund holds him fast, a soft growl rumbling in his chest. He leans in so that their lips tickle together, but do not press.

 

“I haven't forgotten the damages they've done us, pet.” He whispers, and his grip grows lenient when Jack pushes his hand forward, digging his fingers into his scruff. With each passing day he seems more and more unable to keep his hands to himself, just as Bunnymund did their first days together. Jack is drawn relentlessly to the endless span of shining black fur: he kisses it every chance he gets, strokes his palms through it and grasps, yanks, tugs, scratches down with his fingers carefully to watch his buck's eyelids flicker in pleasure. He does not mind.

 

They kiss, hard and desperate, before Bunnymund continues, breathing his words into his doe's mouth. “I won't let them forget it.”

 

Jack's legs straighten and grip around Bunnymund's sides; his fingers clench and his ass follows suit. Heat roils lazily through the Pooka's groin; taking notice of the hardness growing within him, Jack crawls up onto his elbows, his mouth parted slightly to a sliver of pink, pretty tongue to show through as he rolls his hips to pleasure his buck.

 

He thinks of the hard, cruel stares cast at him in his days of loneliness, the whispered japes and gossips they strung noose-like over his neck without his knowledge. How much of his life had he been laughed at, feared? What had he ever done to them but be born with a mark on his hip pertaining to the stories of old, marking him as loved, possessed by the only creature he has ever known to love him true, to gaze at him in adoration without so much as a flicker of fear in his eyes?

 

How good it is, Jack thinks to himself, to cup the fur that so nightly haunted him to his palms and lips and sup from the paws that traced the insides of his thighs and left him trembling for hours on end even when he woke, left him sobbing into his sheets when the heat of his own hand wasn't enough.

 

“Will they suffer?”

 

The Pooka smiles, smoothing his paws over Jack's hip. The boy's cock fills out quickly, hard and leaking at the flushed tip, begging attention. “Immeasurably.”

 

Jack's head falls against Bunnymund's chest; he mouths into the abundance of fur, his pink tongue darting out to taste and groom.

 

Inside him, Bunnymund expands, thick and hot. He withdraws a few inches, and when he pushes back in a moan erupts from Jack's throat, his body twitching wildly as he rocks forward with a choked gasp, circling his arms around his buck's neck again. Not nearly enough time has passed for him to gather himself again and regain strength, but he is learning. He was made precisely for this creature, he can learn to use his strengths to his advantage, he will learn to match his speeds. Already he is less and less the creature of fear he began as- now he is something more, something greater. He is grown more comfortable in his own skin at last- whatever fear that remains in him will soon be shed.

 

“ _Good_.” Jack says, and the anger that rose with mention of his past fades as his cheek is cupped and he is kissed, splintering apart again and settling back into the recesses of his chest, biding its time patiently.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back. Only a little more to go.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [When Monsters Are The Cage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/855072) by [r2mich2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/r2mich2/pseuds/r2mich2)
  * [Blind Faith](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1731845) by [FrozenDoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenDoe/pseuds/FrozenDoe)




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